


Burden of Knowledge

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Drinking, Incest, M/M, Melodrama, Murder, Politics, Rough Sex, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-27
Updated: 2008-02-27
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: When thepoto mitan’s presence is required in New Orleans, Sam and Dean find themselves in a battle for control of the vodouisantes. Dean expects trouble but doesn’t expect to find himself in a battle for his own mind.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean's been watching his father and Sam dance around each other for the past three hours. He's exhausted, watching them, and starting to get dizzy. John's trying not to ask about anything related to San Francisco, to New Orleans, to vodou, and Sam looks as if he respects the effort and is acting as if he's trying to make it easier for John, not saying much, keeping his hands to himself, hardly even looking at their father. Dean itches to reach out and touch Sam, to tell Sam he’s doing well, but he shoves his hands in his pockets and studies the map John has spread out on the bed.

"I suppose we could always start down at Bobby's," John's saying when a cell phone starts ringing. It's not Dean's because it isn't playing classic rock and it's not John's because it isn't the standard 'ring-ring.' 

Sam can't quite hide the look of naked relief that crosses his face when he fishes his phone out of his pocket and flips it open, heading for the door. Dean stands up, looks at Sam, but Sam waves at his brother and shuts the door behind him, not quick enough to hide the sharp staccato burst of Creole that floods from his mouth. 

"Dean?" John asks, eyes moving slowly from the closed door to Dean. "What's going on?" 

The air conditioner cranks on as Dean looks back at his father. He doesn't try to hide how worried he is, doesn't bury down the sudden fear that Sam's never going to step back inside of the room again, and something in John's eyes changes, softens. 

"He's fine," Dean says, not knowing whether he believes what he’s saying or desperately wishes for it to be true. The way Sam looked two nights ago flashes through his mind, curled up as small as possible, talking in such a turned-in, quiet tone. "The people he got mixed up with, he's. It's going to take a while for him to, to get himself entirely out of it and back with us. He's doing the best he can. It’s just going to take some time."

John takes that in, lets out a deep breath as his eyes flick to the door and back. "Should I be worried?" 

It's not a demand, more like an honest question, almost tired; for the first time, Dean wonders what his father's been doing while he's been chasing shadows back and forth across the country. That tone, it deserves as much honesty as Dean can give without implicating Sam in anything, so he thinks before he answers, "I don't know. I don’t. I don’t think so." 

John's lips thin, his eyes turn dark, and when Sam opens the door, John studies his youngest son silently. Sam stands there and takes it, phone held loosely in one hand like it’s a key to another world. 

"I was thinking maybe we'd start in Chicago," John says, directing his words to Sam. "I have some contacts downtown that might be able to point us in the right direction before we go bothering Bobby."

Dean hides a shudder, remembers the way Sam had dismissed the entire city back when they were travelling with Kate, can feel the poison in his brother's voice even now, that callous disregard of life and, Dean thinks, loa. 

Sam doesn't react, though, not at all. He just shrugs and says, "All right."

John holds Sam's gaze a beat longer, then nods once, as if that settles things, as if that's answered some type of question he'd had rolling around in the back of his mind. 

Dean wonders what that question was and if Sam's answer was the one John had been looking for. 

It's not until Dean's packing up the guns that he realises he heard Creole come out of Sam's mouth, not English. He wants to ask about the charm around his own neck, bouncing off of his amulet, almost reaches to feel it, make sure it’s still there, but he catches a glimpse of his father out of the corners of his eyes. Dean keeps his mouth shut and his hands down.

\--

The bar's dimly lit and cold, A/C blasting above and beyond what the place really needs. Dean waits for his eyes to adjust and sees that Sam never paused for the split-second that Dean and John had, just kept walking; either the change in light hadn't bothered him or Sam’s been here before. Dean doesn't know if Sam has or if the loa helped, somehow, just like he doesn't know what Sam had been thinking during the drive here. Sam hadn't said a word, had simply put his sunglasses on and stared out of the window, not even reacting when Dean had switched on Motorhead and yelled along with the lyrics at the top of his lungs.

Sam heads for the bar, Dean follows and turns to raise an eyebrow at his father. John's scanning the room, looks like he's on alert, and Dean swallows when he follows his father's gaze and sees a man with his eyes pinned on Sam's back, making a bee-line for Sam and the bar. 

John had picked the place and, when he'd called, told Dean and mentioned something about recon, Dean hadn't repeated the name of the place for Sam to hear. Sam hadn't reacted when they'd pulled up in front or walked up to the door, but Dean's starting to get the impression that his father and brother are playing some type of game he's not even on the court for. 

By the time the man reaches Sam, Dean and John are close enough to hear him say, "Sam? That you?" 

Sam turns, lips falling into a smile as he hugs the man close and tight, the embrace lasting a moment shorter than propriety might dictate. 

"Larry, man, it's good to see you," Sam says, laughing as he lets go, looks the man over. "Married life suits you. What the hell are you doing up here? Last I heard, you and Gina were over in the Carolinas." 

Dean's openly watching, but his father, ordering beers for them all, is intent on the conversation as well. Sam should be able to tell, Dean thinks, but he isn't acting as if he does. Something is _definitely_ going on. 

"Yeah, well," the guy, Larry, says. "Gina's pregnant, wanted to be close to her ma, you know what women are like. What about you, man, you finally get yourself out of ‘Frisco?" 

Sam shrugs, says, "M'brother came to get me," and gestures at Dean, then John. "This is Dean, and John, my dad. We're road-tripping, spending some time together. This is Larry, one of the guys I met at City College, though he left just before I did." 

"Can't fight love," Larry says with a lopsided smile and a shrug. "Found a girl I liked and followed my dick all the way to Raleigh," and Dean grins, takes Larry's hand when he offers it. He's not expecting much more than a strong grip, a few shakes up and down, which is why he's surprised at a zing that courses through his blood and makes the back of his head ache. 

Dean swallows, reaches for the beer on the bar at the same time he says, "Nice to meet you." 

Larry's eyes laugh for a split-second before they shutter over, and he shakes John's hand, says, "Sam's said a lot of good things about you, sir."

"A lot of bad things, too, I'm guessing," John replies, and Larry grimaces as if he wants to lie but can't think of anything to say off the top of his head. Strangely, that seems to make John relax a little, and he gives Larry a slight smile. "Wouldn't be Sam if he didn't. Good to meet you, son," he says, then turns to the bartender, opens up a quiet dialogue, clearly leaving the three younger men to their own devices. 

\--

John stays at the bar, nursing a beer, while Sam and Larry gravitate to a table. Dean follows his brother, unwilling to let Sam out of arm's reach when he doesn't know why he reacted to Larry the way he did, felt that stinging pain in the back of his head. 

Sam and Larry talk for a few minutes about the East Coast, how different it is from San Francisco and how much the same, as well. Dean's lulled into an easy sense of comfort, is looking around the bar and tracking the movement of players around the pool table, but then Larry says something in Creole, the soft, lazy language sounding out of context up here in Chicago. 

Dean stiffens, looks at his brother, who answers back in the same quiet tone and absently draws in the puddles of condensation on the table. Except then Dean looks down and sees that those absent sketchings are actually fragments of vévés, and when he looks up, it’s to see Sam's eyes swirling and splitting, shattering into someone else. 

"You wanna do that, you better be filling in the boy, here," Sam says, except it’s not Sam, it sounds like Danny. When she moves, Dean knows it’s Danny; her other hand, under the table, skitters over Dean's thigh and presses nails into the seam of Dean’s jeans, following the zipper down and groping. 

He feels his cock start to harden, mentally curses the loa, half-wonders why he can understand the Creole now, not before, and asks, "What's going on?" 

Danny grins, tilts her head down and sips at Sam's beer; her nose wrinkles at the taste but she doesn't stop until all of the liquid's gone. 

Larry looks at her, then at Dean, then back at her, and asks, "He knows, Erzulie?"

"Felt it when you shook his hand, _chwal_," she answers, grinning at him, licking her teeth. "He got a block in 'im big as the Baron's dick but there ain't no way to take back a Petro touch, no sir, no matter how tight Ti-Jean be stitching it up." 

Dean's jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything to that, just holds Larry's gaze when the other man tries to stare him down. 

Larry finally nods, says, “My wife and I, we’re horses, me for the Petro, her for the Rada. We found out Sam was coming here tonight and.” Larry stops, takes a deep breath, says, “And we want to petition the _poto mitan_. There’s a group of us, actually.” 

Danny looks amused when Dean glances over at her, amused as she licks around the top lip of Sam’s empty beer glass. “Why you looking at me, child? Ask the _chwal_ what questions you got.” 

“What does that mean, petition Sam?” Dean asks, turning to Larry and trying not to jump when Danny’s fingers squeeze around the bulge in his jeans. He throws a glare at her, half-hearted, but gives up when she does nothing more than grin, lick her teeth. “And how the hell’d you know we’d be here?” 

“’Zulie should answer the second,” Larry says, “but for the first. A petition’s a formal thing, has to be made by two of the Rada-ridden, two of the Petro-ridden, and a slew of the guédé’s horses.” He pauses, looks at Danny, and when the loa nods, he says, “There have been some strange things going on down south. Now, we all know what the _poto mitan_’s gone through this year, killing hunters, losing his trinity, binding Marinette and becoming his _own_ trinity, so we tried to deal with it amongst ourselves.” 

Dean has a sinking feeling about all of this. “But you can’t take care of it, can you,” he guesses, seeing Larry’s glum expression. “Why not?” 

“’Cause none of them are my _chwal_, child,” Danny answers, cutting Larry off. “None of them are ridden by the black magic Petro like my _chwal_, and they don’t have the connections he does. So they wanna petition and have someone else deal with their own mess.” 

Larry bristles but doesn’t deny it. 

“You don’t live in Chicago, do you,” Dean says. “You and your wife, you came up here specifically to see Sam, to make this, this petition. How the hell’d you know we’d be here?” 

Danny picks up her empty glass, moves it to the middle of the table, and drawls, "Boy, go get me a _real_ drink, and take your time, y'hear me?" 

Larry nods, once and instantly, and slides out, leaving Dean sitting there next to Danny, who's doing her damned best to drive him insane. Between the cryptic comments and the fingers teasing him to hardness, Dean thinks she's going to get closer than a lot of other people have. 

Danny laughs, the slow, sensuous sound running down Dean's spine. "Your daddy, he knows this a place for the _chwal_ to come,” she purrs, moving closer to Dean’s body, speaking almost directly into his ear. 

Dean doesn’t want to know how this looks to everyone else here, suddenly remembers their father and hisses, “You better back the fuck off, Danny.”

She hums but thankfully moves away; Dean’s only regret is that both of her hands are on the table now and he’s finding it impossible to will his erection away. “Your daddy, he knows this a place where us Petro loa be having some fun and he’s wantin’ to see how my _chwal_ react, how the _chwal_ here react to him. He’s heard something about the vodou and he thinks something happened to his precious little sons down south, Mississippi like everyone’s talking about."

Dean gets, then, how tight a line he and Sam are walking. They’ve never been successful in attempts to fool their father before, their odds of it working this time, Dean’s beginning to realise, are a pipe-dream no sane man would bet on. John doesn't believe Sam's safe, doesn't believe Sam's out of the vodou. Dean wants to cry at how right his father is. 

"But what your daddy don't know, child," Danny goes on to say, "is that my _chwal_ be bound to us, and your daddy, for all he can be a damn fine hunter, don't know that us Petro, we take care of our own." 

"Sam warned you, somehow," Dean guesses, "and you warned everyone here, told them not to react."

Danny hums, leans over and whispers, "Smart _and_ a good cock, no wonder my _chwal_ be fallin' in love with you. Ain’t ever shutting up about you, child, good or bad. Mm, think it’ll be my turn to get another taste of you soon? Or would you like the black magic loa better, child, the danger they bring to bed?" 

She makes a noise like a moan, then straightens up, looks 'round the bar. Dean follows her gaze and, like before, doesn't see much of anything. The place has a good crowd but it's mostly quiet, just people drinking, a few others playing pool, some watching the Cubs lose again on an ancient television in the corner. 

He keeps watching and then he sees it, a blink-fast shudder of movement in one corner, an eye-flick from another. Dean gets it: they know Sam's here and they want to talk to him, but the loa won't let anyone. Even so, they're all watching, all ready to come to his aid the split-second he so much as looks like he needs it. Dean thinks back to what Pierre said, in Mississippi, that no one will touch Sam, but everyone will kill for him. Dean remembers Gordon and thinks that maybe Sam doesn’t need anyone’s help. 

"Now you’re getting it, boy," Danny says, as her fingers start tapping out a rhythm on the wood table. "Nothing happened, and that was good, but then that boy talking 'bout Cali, that made it better, the way my _chwal_ answered. Your daddy's still wondering but he’s relaxin’ now, and when he does that he makes mistakes. All y’all hunters always do."

Larry comes back to the table, more beer for him and Dean, some other drink that looks dark and rich for Danny. He sets them down, pauses, waiting to see if he should go away or if it’s all right to stay. 

“This petition,” Dean says, eyes flicking to Danny first and then addressing Larry, watching as the man slides back into the booth. “What will Sam have to do?” 

“We can’t make it here,” Larry replies. “We’ll have to go somewhere else, there’s a place within an hour’s drive. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours. Then, if the _poto mitan_ agrees, he’ll have to go south.” 

Dean narrows his eyes, looks between Larry and Danny, and asks, “Where, exactly, down south?” 

Danny smiles, languorous as the way she leans back, spreading her legs and touching herself, eyelids almost closed. “New Orleans, child. They’re having troubles in the Big Easy.”

“You’re kidding,” Dean says, flatly. At Danny’s curved smile, Larry’s hopeful eyes, Dean sighs, rubs his forehead. “Fucking New Orleans. _Great_.”

“You’ll let him hear the petition, then?” Larry asks, at the same time that Danny says, “Oh, boy, you know you love it down there.” 

Dean wants to thump his head against the table but settles for taking a deep breath. “What, you think that I’d try and stop Sam from doing what he needs to? If he wants to hear it, I’m not gonna stand in his way.”

\--

Larry and Danny start talking, making plans for the petition, how it should be played out. Dean sits back, listening but not engaging them, and he sees it now, watching the two of them interact, letting the Creole flood over and around him. Danny’s Petro and he’d better not forget that. It’s easy to, sometimes, when she leans against him, when she’s fucking him with her eyes, drawling at him slow and sweet, but she’s cunning and sly, has a look in her eyes that brushes up against him and makes him sweat. Danny’s vicious and it’s almost worse than Marinette because at least Marinette didn’t hide it. Danny does, behind every smile, behind every fluttering eyelash and coquettish tilt of her head. 

It has Dean thinking all sorts of things about his brother, the reasons why Danny fits better with him than Marinette did, and he’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe, it would be better if one of the other ones started coming out more often. Ti-Jean and Karrefour scare him in a different way, with their magic and power, but it’s an honest power, none of the dissembling Danny does, the way she slinks in looking harmless and then goes right for the throat. 

She likes Sam, likes _him_, and that worries him almost as much as how desperately he wants to see her ride him again, push him down and fuck him like she did in Louisiana, all those vodouisantes watching. She’s dangerous, he knows that, but instead of scaring him away, it thrills him. Sometimes he thinks Sam knows and sometimes he hopes his brother never will. 

He’s tracing the top of his beer bottle, thinking about going for another, when he can feel the air around their table change, like the atmosphere right before an electrical storm. Dean stiffens, looks at his brother, and says, “Karrefour.” 

The eyes looking back at him, cold and predatory, gleam. “Heya, boy. You ain’t been paying attention to what me and the horse here been talking ‘bout. Now you listen to me; this is what we’re gonna be doing.” 

\--

If John notices anything different about Sam when the three of them go back over to the bar, he doesn’t say anything. Dean explains that they’re going to go see Larry’s wife, Larry says that Gina’s “gonna freak out when she sees Sam, sir, she really got a lot out of his study group,” and Karrefour stands there in Sam’s body, acting awkward and half-embarrassed.

“Don’t stay out too late,” John says, eyes flicking between his sons. They linger on Sam, and Sam blinks, is back to himself when his eyes open. 

“We won’t,” Sam promises, a soft voice that Dean knows from experience none of the loa can mimic. 

Sam follows Larry to the door, and Dean trails them both, exchanging a nod with his father. As Sam walks out of the bar, Dean looks back, sees everyone slump a little, as if they haven’t been able to breathe for the past hour, and sees his father still watching them, beer held loose in one hand, eyes as thoughtful as Dean’s ever seen them. 

\--

Dean drives, following Larry’s directions, given from the passenger seat, and looking in the rearview every so often to lay eyes on Sam, who watches him without, it seems, blinking. 

“Where’d you three come from?” Larry asks, after he’d told Dean to stay on this road for a few miles. Traffic in Chicago crawls, especially this time of day; it’ll take them half an hour at least to go those few miles. 

Dean’s eyes flick to look at Sam, but Sam doesn’t answer. Dean glances at Larry and says, “We were in Savannah a few days ago. Our dad called, wanted us to meet up with him, so we took a couple days to drive up and meet him, then came straight here. He said he had contacts, something to check out, but.” He trails off, thinks about what Danny said, and swears. At Larry’s look, Dean says, “Dad. He said something about recon before heading to Bobby’s.” 

Sam, in the rearview, nods. “Dad doesn’t trust that you saved me,” he says, and Dean’s sort of amazed that Sam can say that with a completely straight face. “Between the charms and the Creole, not to mention the way everyone there reacted.” He exhales, looks human and nothing but for the first time in an hour. “Dean, I don’t know what he’s going to do but I don’t have a choice. I _have_ to go down to New Orleans.” 

“Well, great,” Dean mutters. “You get to play Mr. Voodoo King and I get to figure out how to tell Dad that we’d be happy to help him hunt down this demon he’s tracking, except oh, sorry, we actually have to go to New Orleans but we can’t tell you why, good luck.” 

Larry looks like he’s expecting Sam to react to that any other way but laughter, which is exactly what Sam breaks into. Dean glares but can’t hold it, smiles, starts chuckling as well. Put that way, it does sound funny even though it is, technically, the truth.

“Down that close, we’ll have to call Kate,” Sam adds, and Dean can’t help the grin. 

He brakes for a red light, turns around and says, “Sam, you’re my brother and I love you, but I am letting _you_ explain the whole ditching-us-in-Mississippi thing. There is no reason on earth good enough to stand between you two for that argument.” 

Sam grimaces, Dean laughs, and Larry’s looking at both of them like they’re crazy. 

\--

The place Larry directs them to is a nice apartment building, old but not in an expensive way, lived-in but not run-down. Sure, the paint on the outside’s peeling and the windows could do with a power-wash, but when Dean walks inside, the building’s clean and smells like cinnamon and pine olive. Larry heads right for the elevator but Sam says, “We’ll take the next one up. Let everyone know we’re on our way, okay?” 

Larry nods, the door closes, and Sam turns to Dean, curls his fingers in Dean’s shirt and leans forward, rests his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, turning slightly, enough so that his lips brush the skin of Dean’s neck when he talks. “Dean, I’m sorry to drag you into this. If you don’t want to, if you’d rather go with Dad.” 

Dean cuts him off, lifts one hand and rests it on the nape of Sam’s neck, holds Sam close and tight. “If I wanted to go with Dad, I’d tell you,” he says, firm but just as soft. “You and me, together, like we said in Savannah, okay? The vodouisantes will have to get used to me just like the loa.” He pauses, debates what he’s about to say, but finally just opens his mouth and lets it spill. “And, y’know, if it means I get to fuck you in front of an audience again, even better.” 

Sam laughs, a choking little sound, and straightens up, locks his eyes with Dean’s. Dean can see the back of them swirling, reminder of the loa, but he waits for Sam to talk, doesn’t interrupt. “You just wanna fuck Danny again, I knew it,” and for a split second, Dean honestly thinks that’s what Sam believes. It’s not until he sees the corners of Sam’s mouth move, like he’s trying to hold back laughter, that he relaxes. 

“Dude,” Dean says. “She’s hot, okay? And I like that, but I like _you_ more. Now, since we’ve gotten the required chick-flick moment out of the way, can we go upstairs?” 

“Whatever,” Sam says, turning and pushing the ‘up’ button for the elevator, bumping his shoulder against Dean’s. “You know you love it.” 

Dean’s not about to say how much. 

\--

Sam doesn’t need to be told which floor they’re getting off on, doesn’t hesitate as he walks to a room at the far end of the hallway. Dean’s not sure if it’s because Sam’s been here before or if the loa are talking to him even now, whispering things as prosaic as directions into the back of Sam’s mind. 

“What’s going to happen?” Dean asks, as Sam’s raising his hand to knock on the door. Sam hesitates, turns to look at him, and Dean says, “Hey, you didn’t tell me anything when we were down in Ascension parish. Don’t think that’s gonna happen again. I know you have secrets but I’m your _brother_. I’m not going to let it slide so easy this time.” 

“Wondered if you’d say anything about that,” Sam mutters, but he sighs, says, “Nothing’s going to happen. We’re going to walk in, they’re going to tell us what’s been happening and what they’ve tried to do, and then we tell them we’ll take care of it.” 

Dean narrows his eyes, asks, “That’s it?” 

Sam doesn’t bother answering, just knocks on the door. Larry opens it, steps aside, and Sam walks in without pause. Even from behind, it’s clear to Dean that Sam’s changing slightly, turning into the _poto mitan_ that these people expect him to be, calling the loa closer to the forefront of his mind. Dean hates it at the same time that it makes him strut a little, passing Larry; Sam doesn’t pretend with him, not anymore. It’s a slow process, sure, will be for a while, but Sam’s doing better and Dean is as well. He knows his brother better than anyone here, even if he doesn’t always understand Sam. 

Dean looks around, takes in the apartment’s decorations, furniture, people. It reminds him of Sam’s place in San Francisco, above the café: lots of black and white, red highlights, vévés on the rugs, on the wall. It sends chills down Dean’s spine, and he’s close to arguing when Sam tells him to sit down in one of the chairs against the wall. He doesn’t question Sam, doesn’t fight, though, just sits down and keeps an eye on everyone, shifts to make sure he’s able to reach his gun if he needs to. 

Larry’s not playing sentinel by the door anymore, has moved to stand next to another guy, matching the guy’s furious glare. At the other end of the room, there are two people who look as upset as Larry but are acting calmer. A host of others are scattered around the edges of the room, some of them looking emotional, most of them just grinning and acting as if this isn’t anything serious. 

Sam looks around the room, almost as if he’s counting, and after he’s made a full rotation, stands there and says, “I’m here. Tell me.” It’s not a coaxing tone, exactly, and it’s not one that Dean’s heard from his brother before, but it unleashes a dam as everyone starts talking at once. 

Dean doesn’t see it happen, but he can feel it, feel something like a breath of cool wind, tinged with an edge of metal, flow through the room and soak into his skin. The ache in the back of his head returns, just a brief, glancing touch, but everyone else calms, settles, sits down. 

“That’s better,” Sam says. Dean hears the _poto mitan_ talking, not his brother, swallows down goosebumps. “Let’s try this again. The Rada-ridden. You first. Tell me what you’ve found and why you think this is related to Papa Midnight’s _sosyete_.” 

Dean sees, from the corners of his eyes, as the two people, the calmer ones, look at each other and stand up. He’s much too busy gaping at Sam, though, and before the other two can speak, Dean asks, “Papa Midnight?” in a strangled voice. “Sam. _Papa Midnight_? I thought he died back in the 90s. Bobby said he heard the guy fell out of a building and ended up scrambled on the sidewalk.” 

A few snickers come from the people pressed up against the walls and Dean glances over the crowd before looking back at Sam, easily picking out the fond irritation in Sam’s expression. 

When an answer comes, it doesn’t come from Sam; instead, one of those who’d been snickering says, “Papa Midnight, people like them, they all pretenders, boy. Oh, real enough to talk to us but they ain’t got the good sense loa granted them, done gone and wasted it all. ‘S much as we’d all like to be thinking they gone, we be knowing better. Things they do, people they touch, ‘s like ripples in a pond. Stones sunk but the ripples, they be bouncing off every which way.”

Dean tilts his head, looks at the man, the way he’s holding himself, ridden by a loa, and then sighs, leans back and lets his head thump against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. “Lakwa,” he guesses. “You’re sure he’s dead, though. He wasn’t ridden by you or your family?” 

A collective hiss from the people on that side of the room and Dean looks at Sam, shakes his head slightly as if he doesn’t know what he’s said. 

“They be wanting to use us, boy,” Lakwa says. “Not serve us, not partner us, not respect us like the _chwal_ here.” 

“We tend to take issue with that, Dean Winchester,” one of the Rada-ridden says. It’s not a voice that Dean recognises, seems to contain within it the rhythm and flow of oceans and tidal rivers, and Dean frowns. “We only come to those who petition us and then not even all of them. We choose the worthy and we hate to be tricked. Midnight and his ilk, they tricked us.” 

Dean opens his mouth, is about to ask something, but the other Rada-ridden speaks up, a woman who Dean’s guessing is Gina if Larry wasn’t lying about that for John’s benefit. “So when we held council, we decided we’d help those intent on killing him.”

Sam says, “Why don’t all of you fill Dean in,” and moves from the centre of the room, walks to one end and sits between Larry and that other guy, both of whom look furious, ready to hunt, to kill. They make room for him, seem to calm even as Sam sits there, lean in though they’re careful not to touch Sam. 

Dean realises, Petro loa, and he remembers what Pierre had said down in Kirklin. For all that they’ll kill for Sam, none of them will touch him. Dean’s the only one. He looks at Sam, really _looks_, and wonders if he’s the only one to see that Sam’s far less surprised by any of this. 

Evidently not, because one of the women sitting near the Baron asks, “You’ve known, all this time?” Dean doesn’t think the woman’s being ridden, thinks she sounds shocked. 

Sam’s lips curve up on one side, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hair curling over his eyes, and says, “I _am_ the _poto mitan_, Marie. Despite everything that’s been happening, you think I’ve been ignoring what’s going on in our back yard?” His voice changes in the next instant, back to Danny as she says, “Now, be quiet and bring my _masisi_ up to speed. He’s gonna need it, heading down to Orleans.” 

Dean grins, leans backwards, inverse mirror of Sam’s hunched over form, gives the room a raised eyebrow. “Well?” he asks, into the silence. “You’d better tell me before she gets pissed off.” 

“The loa didn’t take kindly to Papa Midnight and his crew,” one of the un-ridden says, wide eyes looking between Sam, Dean, and the Rada-ridden. “Damballah helped release their power, sent them tumbling toward Hell, and we all cheered them on their descent.” 

“’Cept Papa Midnight, he made these boxes,” another says, seamlessly taking over. Dean doesn’t know if it means the loa are orchestrating who says what but finds he doesn’t care so much, not when Sam’s eagle-eye intent on what they’re saying. Dean thinks everyone else would draw conclusions based on the way Sam’s eyes keep swirling and shattering, but Dean’s not fooled. No loa’s riding him right now. 

He keeps thinking he should ask about that. 

“They were curse boxes, made to contain things too powerful for just anyone to get a hold of,” one of the Rada-ridden says, the one who sounds like oceans. 

“The boxes contained parts of his _konesan_,” someone else says. At Dean’s frown, shaking head, the girl says, “Knowledge,” almost patiently, even as others are restless, impatient. Sam’s eyes narrow, his lips flatten; people lean backwards, out of his line of sight. “Rites, spells, lore; what a priest or priestess knows, either by learning it or by the loa.” Dean nods, to say he understands. “When Papa Midnight died, the loa told us to get the boxes.” 

Gina gives a self-deprecating smile, picks up there. Dean’s starting to get a little dizzy, looking from person to person. “And we did. Gathered every single one of them. Held them for a while, ‘til the _poto mitan_ told us what to do with them.” 

Dean looks at Sam, who shrugs. “They had them all grouped together. One of my first acts taking over, one of the few I was all right with, right away, was to scatter them to the four corners of our lands.” 

“Makes sense,” Dean mutters. “But what went wrong?” 

Three people -- Dean counts -- open their mouths to answer, but Sam does something, lets out that wave of power again. This time it doesn’t just soak into Dean’s skin; it seems to go deeper, vibrating in his gums. “_Dude_,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his head. “Could you _stop_ that? Please?” 

Sam’s eyes glimmer, and he says, “Sorry,” in a half-distant voice, like more of his attention’s focused elsewhere, suddenly deep in thought. “Anyway,” he goes on seconds later, shaking his head, sounding as if he’s come back to the present, “we kept some of the boxes in New Orleans with people I trusted. Except now the boxes have started disappearing. Some of the others tried to investigate but the people they need to talk to won’t cooperate. Not to mention,” he adds, “that Papa Midnight’s _sosyete_ require a special touch in discussion.” 

“A special touch,” Dean says, flat echo of his brother’s words. “Why don’t I like the sound of that? And what the hell’s a _sosyete_? People, ghost, what?” 

Sam grins, and Dean sees shades of Karrefour in the expression, power and bloodlust, what Lakwa warned Dean against only a week ago. “_Sosyete_,” Sam says, voice almost a purr. The Petro-ridden next to him lean in even closer, and Dean can see their nostrils flare, as if they can smell power leaking off of Sam’s body. “The disciples, followers, and students of a priest or priestess. Very human.” 

“Your people ask for your assistance, _chwal_,” one of the Rada-ridden says, impatience etched in every word, as if this has gone on long enough. The Petro horses straighten up, glare, and Dean doesn’t know why. “Now your brother knows, what’d you say?” 

“New Orleans,” Dean says, eyes only for Sam. “Sounds like hell, but if that’s what we gotta do, that’s what we gotta do.” 

Sam sighs, looks around the room. “I need to know what you’ve done, who you’ve talked to, everything. I know which boxes are gone, Ti-Jean kept me up to date on that, but I don’t know who the last ones were to have them.” He takes a deep breath, says, “I also need to know which of our people are willing to assist in this.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow as the entire room seems to sit back, start looking at each other. “What?” he asks. He doesn’t like showing his ignorance, especially for such a long period of time, but the way people seem to be reacting, it’s like Sam’s asking for volunteers for something far more dangerous than what Dean had thought. 

“No one?” Sam asks, ignoring Dean for the moment. “One of Agoueh’s chosen _chevaux_, Bacalou’s favourites, Guédé Bábáco’s family?” Sam stops, waits, and when no one speaks, his lip curls. “Loa strike you,” he says, quietly. People flinch, one after another. “None of you would help before and none of you will help now.” Sam stands up, and even though Dean doesn’t feel the same metallic breeze from before, he can smell it, like burnt metal in the air. “Cowards, every last one of you. You’re not worthy of the gifts you’ve received. Loa strike you and leave you,” Sam hisses. 

Dean stands up, following his brother’s example, feels phantom pain in the back of his skull. Sam stalks across the room, towards the door, and Dean trails him, one hand on his gun, keeping an eye on the people. They all look shell-shocked.

Sam’s almost to the door when one of the Rada-ridden stands up, calls out, “_Poto mitan_, wait, please.” Sam pauses but doesn’t turn around; Dean pulls out his gun, keeps it pointed at the floor but his eyes are on Gina, if that even _is_ Gina. “What will you do?” 

“What I have to,” Sam says. “And what none of you will.” He turns around then, lays a blistering gaze over the crowd of people. 

Dean feels Sam’s eyes skip over him and he’s glad because Sam looks ready to kill someone. He remembers the way his brother was, how angry, the last time they were in Chicago, and wonders if these are the same people that Sam came up to talk to, that he dismissed so coldly before. 

“You cause _dezòd_ and you always have,” Sam says. “You talk and talk but the minute anyone asks you to sacrifice the slightest thing, you stay silent. As _poto mitan_ and holder of _zo regleman_, you’re done. No more. I’ve been patient, more patient than you deserve. It’s over.”

The ridden fall to the ground, start shaking, and Sam walks out. Dean follows, doesn’t put his gun away until they’re in the Impala and driving back towards the motel. 

“What happened?” he finally asks, when it seems as if Sam’s not going to say anything, is going to sit there with his teeth clenched, staring through the windshield for the rest of the ride. “At the end, before you walked out.” Dean looks over, sees the muscles in Sam’s cheek tense, relax. “Dude, talk to me.” 

“The Baron told you what I am,” Sam says, still staring out of the window, not looking at Dean.

Dean frowns, hangs a left. “Yeah, that night we got drunk,” he answers, wincing at the memory of the fight he’d provoked. “That you’re a, a conduit, that you bring the loa down.” Dean pauses, thinks that over, and asks, “You aren’t going to let the loa ride those people again, are you.”

“No, I’m not,” Sam says simply. “They’ve had more than enough chances. I asked them to help with Marinette. The horses in St. Louis were happy to help us, as were the horses in Biloxi. But the ones up here.” He stops, shakes his head. “I don’t know what it is with them, but I’ve had enough.”

“Does that mean we have to stop in St. Louis on our way down to New Orleans?” Dean asks. “We had a good time in St. Louis. And, y’know, we never got around to the fucking last time we were there.” 

Sam snorts, finally looks at Dean, and Dean can see regret and firm determination on his brother’s face under the amusement. “We could take 55 down, if you wanted,” Sam says, and Dean leans over, punches Sam in the arm, when he sees a smile fluttering around Sam’s lips. Sam reaches up, rubs his arm, and grins. “We don’t have to worry about Kate this time, either.” 

\--

The drive back to the motel is quiet; it starts drizzling halfway there and the sound of the wipers and faint Zeppelin is more than enough for Dean, with the way that Sam’s stretched out across the bench seat, head resting on Dean’s shoulder. 

It’s not until Dean’s parking, just before he turns the car off, that Sam says, “I am sorry, y’know.” 

“For what?” Dean asks. He turns the key and the Impala’s engines shut off with a rumble, wipers still going, music louder now that it doesn’t have to compete with the pot-holed road. His hands itch to pull Sam close and never let go, but their father’s inside one of those rooms, probably heard the Impala and expects them to walk through the door any time. If Dean reaches out, he and Sam won’t be moving any time soon. 

Sam sighs, turns and rubs his forehead into Dean’s shoulder before pulling away, sitting up, like he knows exactly what Dean’s thinking. “All this?” he says, half-question. Sam lets out with a half-laugh, shakes his head then pushes hair out of his eyes. “For getting you mixed up in this. That was never. I never wanted you to know about it.” Dean can’t stop the flash-flood of hurt that pours through him, and it’s like Sam knows, can tell, because Sam stretches, puts just his fingertips on Dean’s leg. “I’m glad you’re here now, I am. I just. If there had been the chance to have you back, to be with you and Dad, and to keep you guys separate from the vodou, I would’ve jumped at it. Not just because you’re hunters, but because this is something that I.” 

He trails off, but Dean knows what Sam’s trying to say. Between Lissa and Kate, between the things that he’s put together, sewn up with Sam’s admission in Savannah, Dean knows. “Dude, it’s all right. We’ll deal. We always do. But right now, we have to go in and figure out what to tell Dad. Once we’re clear of Chicago, you can tell me just _what_ I should expect down in New Orleans.” 

“You haven’t come up with a story yet?” Sam asks. Dean’s about to defend himself, but then he sees that Sam’s grinning, is already moving out of the car. 

\--

John looks up at them when they open the motel door, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean and Sam, settling on Sam. Dean’s not worried, not until he takes in the way John’s sitting at the rickety table, tense, with a gun on the table right in front of him. Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat and moves in front of Sam. 

“Dad?” he asks, breaking John’s line of sight, and watches as his father’s eyes seem to darken. 

Sam shifts behind him and John’s eyes follow as Sam stands next to Dean, squaring his shoulders. “If there’s something you want to say, Dad, go ahead. I’m not stopping you.” John stands up but stays on his side of the room. Dean’s trying to get in front of Sam again, but Sam puts a hand out, takes Dean by the wrist. “It’s all right, Dean,” he says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of their father. “If Dad was going to do anything, he would’ve done it already.” 

John nods once, quick, brusque, acknowledging the truth of Sam’s words. Dean doesn’t feel any better about it but he stops moving and presses flush against Sam, no space between the lines of their bodies, clearly choosing a side. 

“Dean’s still wearing the charms you gave him,” John says, “which means you’re still in the vodou. Otherwise there wouldn’t be a point.” Sam nods, doesn’t have to say anything, and Dean holds his breath, watching emotions play across his father’s face too fast for Dean to decipher. “You’re not ever going to be able to get out of it, are you.” 

It’s not a question, not really, but Dean’s not surprised that Sam treats it like one, says, “No, sir. No, I’m not.” 

John sighs, turns away and runs one hand over his hair. Dean tenses, thinking that his father might be going for the gun, but Sam leans slightly to his right, pressing against Dean. The mere action calms Dean, has him let out a deep exhale. “And you’re dragging your brother into it, aren’t you.” 

Dean opens his mouth, but Sam beats him to the answer, says, “Yes, sir. I am. But it’s his choice. I’d never force him into this against his will and you _know_ that.” 

“Better you than someone else,” John says. Dean frowns, looks at Sam, who looks back, seemingly just as puzzled. John turns back around, faces them, and sighs again. “I’ll spread the word that there’s someone we trust involved with the vodouisantes. I’ll do my best, anyway; I don’t know if anyone’ll listen to me, especially if they know it’s a hunter-turned-horse. Still, if I can get everyone to stay out of your way.” 

“I’ll make sure we stay out of yours,” Sam says, effortlessly finishing their father’s sentence. “But I’m not going to ask them to change who they are. I can’t, not without losing what little influence I have. If things need to be done, we’ll still do them.” 

John sits down again, takes the same pose that Sam had, earlier. Dean’s watching his father and brother, listening to them bargain. He wants to say that Sam has more influence than what he’s letting on, has far more power over the horses and more leverage with the riders, but he thinks John already knows that. 

“I get it, Sam, I do. I don’t like it, but I get it. Just,” John says, sounding as if he’s struggling with something. He looks up at Dean and says, “Take care of him.” He sounds fierce, more the father Dean expects than the hunter speaking on behalf of his colleagues. “Dean, you take care of your brother. Don’t let him do anything stupid.” 

“Hey,” Sam says, mildly protesting. It’s enough to break the ice, enough to have John leaning back in his chair. Dean relaxes, knocks Sam with his elbow, and steps away, perches on the edge of the bed. “I never do anything stupid.” 

Dean snorts at the same time John does, and he looks at his father, almost surprised. John smiles, just a little, and says, “I don’t ever wanna know anything, Sam. Not a thing.” 

“Yes, sir,” Sam says, softer. 

There’s silence for a moment, then Dean breaks it by belching. Sam shakes his head, John’s eyes soften, and Dean asks, “We got any beer?” 

\--

After they’ve demolished a six-pack and a deep-dish pizza, are on seconds of each, John asks, “I take it something happened tonight?”

Dean and Sam look at each other, and Dean’s the one who says, “I thought you didn’t want to know anything.”

John takes a pull of his beer, eyes the pizza, and says, “I don’t. But I’m betting I’ll be going after this demon alone, won’t I.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, letting out a deep breath. “I wish we could come with you, but I have to go,” Sam starts to say, before Dean knocks his bottle of beer against Sam’s. Sam rolls his eyes at his brother and corrects himself. “_We_ have to go down south and deal with some stuff. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I hope it’s not more than a couple of weeks. Will you be all right hunting by yourself?” John raises an eyebrow and Sam flushes but doesn’t look away. “I know, Dad, but still. Demons and all. I’d feel better if you had back-up.” 

“When I get close, I’ll call Bobby,” John promises. “And I’ll keep in touch. But you boys better do the same. No matter what’s going on.”

Sam looks almost flabbergasted, but Dean, Dean’s not. He’s always known that John loves them both and, even though Sam’s had doubts, Dean never has. “Thanks,” Dean says, before Sam can open his mouth and say something stupid. “We will.” 

“Besides, I have Dean,” Sam adds, swallowing down enough of his surprise to speak up. 

Dean isn’t about to say how much of himself Sam has, or vice versa, so he settles for muttering, “You better believe it, bitch,” over the lip of his beer. “Someone wanna pass me a piece of that pizza?”


	2. Chapter 2

They leave the next morning, John standing in the doorway and watching them until they drive out of sight. Dean heads for St. Louis but he doesn’t take the highway like Sam had suggested the night before; they stick to the back roads and let the music push them along. 

An hour east of Havana, Illinois, caffeine and the fatigue of a slight hangover furring over his need to touch Sam, Dean says, “I keep meaning to ask.” 

Sam’s been writing in a notebook, what Dean thinks might be letters even though it’s all in Creole or French, nothing Dean can read. At Dean’s words, though, he looks up, brings the pen to his mouth and starts chewing on the end, raising an eyebrow in question. 

“What’s a _masisi_?” Dean asks, looking over at his brother. “One of the girls in Louisiana said it, and then Danny, down at the gathering and here.” Dean looks back at the road, adds, keeping an eye on Sam’s reaction out of the corner of his vision, “The way it’s used, makes me think everyone’s calling me your boyfriend.” 

Sam grins, ducks his head down. Dean reaches over, tucks a curl behind Sam’s ear. “Would you have a problem with that?” Sam asks, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. 

Dean laughs, lets one hand fall to Sam’s thigh, the other riding low on the Impala’s steering wheel. “No. But is that what it means? Something like that?” 

“Not exactly,” Sam replies, after adding something to the page he’s writing on, nib of the fountain pen scratching across uneven paper. Dean doesn’t know how Sam can write smoothly on these roads; thinking that, though, Sam’s had plenty of years to practice. “It literally means a gay man, but in this context, it means you’re Danny’s lover, even when she’s in a male horse. She’s the only one who’s referred to you as that, and always as hers. It’s a way of laying claim to you.” He looks up, and, as if he’s trying to placate Dean, says, “It might be possessive, but it’s affectionate as well. She likes you, wants everyone to know it.” 

Dean thinks about that, lets it settle in his mind for the next ten miles, then, when he thinks he understands, asks, “And what about you?” Sam asks what he means, and Dean feels stupid answering. “You know. What will you call me? Because introducing me as your brother, that’s really gonna put a crimp in my style.” 

Sam snorts, looks back down at the notebook. “Relax, horndog,” he says, tone dry. “You’re Dean. Anything more than that, you can tell whoever’s asking.” 

\--

They stop and get some gas for the car, some food for them, and once they’re back on the road, closer to St. Louis, once Sam’s clenching his hand into a fist and relaxing it as if he has a cramp, Dean says, “When there’s Petro stuff happening, I can feel it. Y’know,” he adds, waving with one hand in the general direction of the back of his head, “here, where Ti-Jean blocked me off. Is it just because of that, because of Marinette? Or is it more?” Sam doesn’t say anything for a minute, and Dean pushes, says, “Because at Larry’s place, it seemed like you didn’t realise it was happening. Dude, if there’s something wrong with my head or if I’m gonna find myself with a damn loa riding around in my skull, I’d like to know.” 

Dean doesn’t think Sam’s going to answer, gives his brother time but Sam doesn’t say a word, just keeps staring. He’s determined not to let it drop, though, so he keeps one eye on the road and the other on Sam, looking over every so often to see if Sam’s expression has changed. It hasn’t, beyond his eyes glimmering, loa moving in the back of green irises. When Sam moves, Dean flinches, not expecting it, but he exhales and makes a show of relaxing. Sam reaches over, places two fingers on the back of Dean’s skull, right above that all-persistent _ache_; Dean nearly drives off the road when a flick of lightning goes coursing through his veins. 

“Jesus,” he gasps, pulling over. “Warn a guy, would you? The fuck was that?” 

“I don’t know,” Sam replies. 

Dean’s ready to tell Sam to stop messing around, but then he looks at his brother and sees that Sam’s eyes are wide, his lips are pale. “Yeah, you do,” Dean argues. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have that look on your face. Tell me what the fuck’s going on, Sam.” 

Sam bites his lower lip, shakes his head; when he speaks, it’s not Sam. “My _chwal_ have a guess, Dean Winchester, but there ain’t no way of telling for sure, not until we get near a bokò.”

“Then tell me what you _think_ it is, Danny,” Dean growls. 

The loa laughs, says, “Sound like sex when y’do that,” and Sam exhales, rubs his forehead. “Marinette was in you how long, a few days?” he asks. “From Plaquemines to San Francisco, then the few hours in Kirklin, then Ti-Jean sewed you shut. Petro loa, then a Petro spell, and you were accepted at a Petro gathering and you wear a charm with the sign of Karrefour, one that should’ve stopped working days ago. Shit. I should’ve guessed.” 

Dean frowns, asks, “Guessed what?” 

“I don’t know for sure, but if I’d never met you before and I’d heard this from someone else, I’d say you were Petro-sensitive,” Sam says. He can’t seem to look at Dean; Dean doesn’t know why or if there’s something fascinating outside, because he can’t tear his eyes away from his brother. Sam looks honestly terrified and Dean has no idea why. 

“Petro-sensitive,” he half-states, half-asks. Sam nods, and Dean reaches out, grips Sam’s chin, turns Sam’s face so he can look in Sam’s eyes. The loa are fluttering like mad, though they all seem to freeze when Dean asks, “What does that mean, Sam.” 

Sam doesn’t try to look away, though his eyes flicker. “How much do you know about the Petro loa?” 

Dean lets go of Sam’s face, rubs his hands together. “Not much more than what I’ve learned since I saw you in California,” he admits. “They call the Petro the hot loa and they’re more aggressive, more fierce than the others. Right?” 

Sam nods, says, “The Petro are more violent, more demanding, more powerful, more practical. Their magic’s stronger, which is why the black magic Petro are so feared, but they’re much more possessive of their horses. The Petro-ridden, they’re a breed of their own.”

This is making more sense than Dean would like to admit and he’s starting to get an anxious feeling in his gut. “One Petro in a trinity to balance the Rada, but three Petro in a trinity means that the trinity has more magical power than the rest of the horses would like,” Dean guesses, feeling his way through the words he’s saying. “It also means the trinity is that much more aggressive -- and you made _yourself_ a trinity? Fuck, Sam, no wonder they’re all terrified of you.” 

Sam snorts, says, “That’s as much to do with my role as my riders. A lot of them were worried that the _poto mitan_ would favour either Rada or Petro, which was one of the reasons I eventually invited Lakwa to be my chosen rider. Now, though.” Sam stops, shakes his head. “No doubt the old Chicago group’ll be telling everyone that I’ve lost perspective and that I couldn’t restrain the loa. They don’t understand a thing.”

“But your loa,” Dean says, thinking furiously, “they protect you. Hell, they were willing to keep your mind hazed to stop you from mourning Marinette.” He stops, tilts his head, and says, “That’s what you meant when you said they were possessive. Right?” 

“Right,” Sam says, nodding. “Once a rider and a horse have bonded, for lack of a better term, the rider watches out for the horse as much as the horse gives up himself for the rider. That’s why we say that the Petro-ridden are a type all their own: the Rada-ridden don’t change too much and the horses for the guédé have to deal with new talents, new skills, but being a Petro horse, it’s half predisposition to the type of emotions a Petro loa carries and half willingness to give up _everything_ in the joining.” 

Dean nods slowly, once, twice, then, as he’s nodding a third time, the pieces snap into place. “Half predisposition, you said. And you think I’m Petro-sensitive. What, you think there’s a fucking loa interested in me?”

Sam looks just as dazed as Dean feels, but his voice is even as he asks, “What does it feel like when your head aches?” 

“Lightning,” Dean replies, without needing to think about it. “Lightning. Sometimes painful, sometimes just an ache. But I can smell it, too. Or, I did, at least, back in Chicago. And. And I can tell when it’s you talking or a loa. On other people, as well. I take it that’s not normal, either?”

“Fuck,” Sam breathes. Dean’s not sure what the look on Sam’s face might mean; if he had to guess, he’d think it was a mix of fear and desperate, strangled longing, but that doesn’t make any sense. “Looks like you might be more involved with this than I thought.” 

\--

Dean eventually works up enough mental capacity to get the Impala back on the road and heading south for St. Louis again, though Sam doesn’t say another word, just spends the next three and a half hours staring at Dean. It doesn’t bother Dean, not when he’s taking every chance he can to stare back, to watch Sam for any sign of the loa, any sign that Sam’s been joking about this. Dean knows it’s an empty wish. 

Sam’s phone rings when they start seeing signs for Alton and Florissant. They both jump, the sound echoing in the silence inside of the Impala, and Sam fumbles, answers it with a brisk, “Yes?” Dean listens, can’t not, and gathers that someone from the St. Louis group of vodouisantes is telling Sam where they are, where they’ll be. 

“We’ll find our own bed,” Sam says, and Dean looks over, watches Sam mouth a question, tries not to linger on the curve of Sam’s lips, pull up a mental picture of St. Louis’ road system instead. “You’ll be off Gravois tomorrow?” Sam looks at Dean, raises an eyebrow.

“Kingshighway,” Dean murmurs, shrugging. Sam nods, goes back to his conversation, and Dean drives toward the centre of St. Louis, heading for Kingshighway. There’s a group of motels upwind of Forest Park; it’ll give them a chance to sleep in for once and they won’t be too far from the riverboats if they gather up the nerve to try and hustle around security cameras. 

Dean likes St. Louis, especially the downtown area. They stayed in East St. Louis, across the river, for a few months when Dean was in high school; he spent more time downtown than actually in school, much to Sam’s chagrin and John’s amused frustration. It’s changed since then, parts of downtown cleaning up, all those lofts going in, but Dean’s willing to lay down money there’re still some good bars around. 

He turns onto Kingshighway, heads south towards Barnes-Jewish and Tower Grove, and pulls into the parking lot of the first non-chain motel he sees. He half debates asking if Sam’s in the mood to go out tonight, celebrate their newfound freedom, but Sam’s scribbling in his notebook again and doesn’t look like he’d be up for it. 

“I’ll get the room,” Sam says, and ducks out of the Impala as soon as Dean puts it in park, leaving the notebook behind. 

Dean frowns, watches as Sam enters the lobby, leans over the counter, and starts talking to the guy. He keeps one eye on Sam while he picks up the notebook, scans the writing. Sam’s chickenscratch hasn’t changed at all since middle school so that’s not what’s keeping Dean from understanding the words on the page. This definitely isn’t in English, and Dean took Spanish in high school, not French, so he doesn’t even know whether this is French or Creole. 

He looks back up to see Sam taking two key-cards from the guy but Dean never saw a credit card pass the counter. He narrows his eyes, undoes his seat belt. Sam comes out, points at the room at the far end, and walks over. Dean studies Sam’s walk even as he’s reversing, driving to the end of the row. His brother’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, his head is down, and he’s muttering something to himself. 

Dean parks, gets out of the Impala, and says, “Hey, Sammy, what’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” Sam says. Dean raises an eyebrow, because Sam sounds angry and he hadn’t been before. 

Sam goes into the room, leaves the door open, and Dean doesn’t even bother with the bags, not when he doesn’t know what’s going on. He marches right on in after Sam and slams the door. “Dude. What the hell?” 

The next thing Dean knows, his back is pressed against the door and Sam’s lips are against his, biting his way into Dean’s mouth. Dean doesn’t mind, would have to be an idiot to mind, but the second Sam comes up for air, Dean spins them, slams Sam against the door and holds Sam’s wrists out, pinned to the wall. 

“What is _going on_?” Dean growls. 

He’s not expecting Sam to bare his teeth and growl back, is really not expecting the words that come out of Sam’s mouth. “You’re mine. I don’t care what the loa say, you belong to me, no one and nothing else.”

Dean’s a bit bewildered; he nods, says, “Yeah, duh. What’s this really about?” 

Sam doesn’t back down, fights Dean’s hold, and Dean doesn’t know if Sam’s been holding back all these years or if his little brother’s getting some help from the loa, because Dean ends up on the floor, head cracking against the thin carpet. His vision blurs for the time it takes Sam to pounce on him, sit on his legs and start scrabbling with Dean’s jeans; not that Dean’s complaining, but he is _really_ confused. 

“Sam, come on, dude, not that I mind, but what’s going on?” Dean asks. He moves to stop Sam from pulling down the zipper on his jeans, but Sam bares his teeth and growls again, so Dean makes a show of taking his hands back slowly, eyes focused on Sam’s. “Sam? Talk to me. Please.” 

“_Mine_,” Sam snarls, and leans down, digs his teeth into Dean’s neck, bites and draws blood. 

It suddenly dawns on Dean that this, Sam acting this way, possessive and demanding and aggressive, it’s everything he’s heard of the Petro loa, the way he’s come to expect Petro horses to act, and even as he’s thinking, he can’t decide whether to give in and hope his passivity brings Sam back to his senses or fight his brother for control. 

Instead of thinking, Dean acts, twining one hand in Sam’s hair and yanking his brother’s head up and back, so that Dean can look Sam in the face, hold his gaze. “Yours,” Dean says, drawing the word out, making sure Sam’s hearing him. “Yours and no one else’s, ever again, but it goes both ways, Sam.”

Sam exhales, swallows, and says, more calmly, “You’re mine.” 

“Yes,” Dean replies, and then, as sense and sanity are starting to creep back into Sam’s features, he adds, “Now, get off me. We’ll salt the room, ward the doors, and pick this back up when we’re on a bed. Because I don’t know about you, but this carpet? Not the most comfortable. We’ve definitely had better.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, standing up, offering Dean a hand. Sam sounds panicked, like he’s trying to decide whether to explain or hyperventilate, so Dean uses Sam as leverage and, when he’s vertical, Dean kisses his brother, soft lips, gentle tongue. Sam seems to let out a huge breath, body folding downward, loose and pliant, and Dean knows that Sam’s back. 

He steps backwards, hands on Sam’s chest, and says, “I’ll go get the stuff out of the car. You take care of things in here. Okay? Good. Right.” He leaves without waiting for Sam’s response. 

\--

Outside, Dean takes a deep breath, exhales and looks up at the sky. Clouds, too many of them to see stars, but now he’s starting to get pissed. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean checks that the room door’s mostly closed before making a sharp ninety degree turn, stalking to the front office and not the Impala. 

He walks into the lobby and the kid behind the counter looks up, smiles, and asks, “Can I help,” before Dean reaches over the counter and grabs the kid by the shirt, cutting him off. 

“What the fuck did you say to him,” Dean demands, voice low and gravelly. It’s a tone he learned from his father and one that hasn’t failed him yet.

“Look, man, what’s your _problem_?” the kid wheezes out. “Guy came in, asked for a room.” 

Dean doesn’t believe him but he doesn’t have a reason, not until the kid struggles and Dean’s hand slides across the kid’s skin. A sharp ache in the back of his head, the smell of lightning in his nostrils, and Dean grabs the kid tighter, practically hauls him up onto the counter. If he wasn’t so angry, he’d think the sight of the kid’s feet kicking air would be funny; as it is, he’s hardly impressed. 

“You’re a horse for a damned Petro loa,” Dean says, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile. “I don’t care which one and I don’t care why the first motel I pulled in to is one of yours, but I’m telling you this: leave us the fuck alone. Until we come calling on you, _stay away_.” 

“He’s our _poto mitan_,” the kid says, cheeks turning red. “We can’t stay away. By our own laws, we’re not allowed to.”

Dean smiles, tilts his head, and makes his fist a little tighter. The kid pants for breath but Dean doesn’t care. “Allowed to, not allowed to. Seems like you’ve all been breaking the rules for fucking _years_.” He lets go, watches the kid fall to the ground without expression, and when the kid’s looking up at him, Dean adds, “So break that one. If I have to tell one of you again, I won’t be so kind.” 

The kid snorts, rubs his throat, and asks, “What could you do to me?” 

“I’m a hunter, kid,” Dean says. “I don’t just kill demons and poltergeists, if you get what I’m saying.” He watches, sees the instant the kid believes him, turns white. “Have a good night,” Dean says, mocking, furious smile on his face, and leaves. 

\-- 

He jogs to the Impala, grabs the bags they’ll need, and goes back inside the room. Sam’s sitting on the bed, hunched over and staring at the floor; Dean swears under his breath. He’s been gone too long and Sam must know what he’s been doing, but Sam didn’t come after him. 

Dean doesn’t say anything, just salts the room and checks the runes Sam’s drawn in blue grease pencil on the windows. Only after that’s done does Dean turn, look at his brother. 

“You’ve been holding it back, haven’t you,” Dean guesses, though it’s not really a guess. “Sam, you’re a Petro trinity and you haven’t acted at all like it. Everything I was told to expect, by others _and_ by you, none of it’s happened. Until now. Is that because you’ve been holding it back? Hiding?” 

Sam can’t look at him, which has Dean exhaling, looking at the ceiling and wondering when and how on earth his brother got so stupid. 

“Dude,” Dean finally says, after Sam’s been sitting in silence for a few minutes. Sam won’t meet his eyes, so Dean pokes, says, “You’re an idiot, you know that, right? Just when I think you can’t do anything as dumb as you already have.” He stops, makes a show of tsking, and sees Sam look up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“Dean?” Sam asks. 

Dean huffs, says, “Don’t interrupt me when I’m lecturing you.”

Sam’s eyes narrow, and he says, “You’re not my father, Dean. Only Dad gets to lecture me, and I don’t even take it from him all the time.” 

“_Shut. Up._” Dean leans down, gets right in Sam’s face. “You’re acting like a child, Sam.” Dean sees Sam grit his teeth and try to breathe, but Dean won’t let his brother hit zen-headspace or whatever it is that Sam’s trying to reach, so he snarls, reaches out and runs his hand through Sam’s hair, grabs hold and yanks. “Such a fucking idiot.” 

That breaks Sam’s concentration. He surges up, yanking out of Dean’s hold, and shoves his brother away. “I am _not_ an idiot,” he growls. 

Dean’s never heard that tone of voice from his brother before; it goes straight to his dick. “Then why are you hiding? Trying not to scare me? Trying to prove how normal you are? Sam, you’re not normal and you don’t scare me.” 

For a second, Sam wavers on the verge of ignoring Dean’s words and attacking his brother or getting control of himself. Dean waits, almost without breathing, and watches as Sam reins himself in. Sam stalks to the other side of the room, slams his fist against the wall, and stands there, head down, hair hiding his face. 

“It scares me too,” Sam finally says. Dean, having given Sam time to gather himself, stares. Sam turns, looks over his shoulder, moves his entire body and sags against the wall. “Every second of every day. I don’t. I don’t want to become what they say I’m supposed to. It wasn’t this bad before. Even right after the vévés were tattooed, when I was in Savannah, it wasn’t this bad. But now, it’s just. All the time, I can hear them and I want to.” He breathes. “It would be so easy.” 

“What would be easy?” Dean asks softly, not wanting to startle Sam, not wanting to have Sam pull away from him, brush this off only to force it back down and have the emotions spill out later. 

Sam looks at Dean, holds his gaze, as if he’s silently telling Dean that he knows what Dean’s doing. Still, Sam answers, says, “I chose Lakwa as the first loa of the _poto mitan_ because I’ve always been scared of the Petro.” It’s a blunt confession and Dean blinks with the simple force of it. “I think every Winchester would be considered Petro-sensitive to a degree. We’re just not calm enough for the Rada and we’re not carefree like the guédé. We’re passionate, we’re emotional; you, me, and Dad, Dean, we’re all fucking crazy and angry and trained to do whatever it takes in the name of the mission.”

Dean thinks about arguing but can’t. For all that Sam preferred the books, the research, he was raised in a world without his mother, in a life where the only thing that mattered was vengeance. Sam’s had a gun in his hand since he was old enough to grip one, he’s had knives custom-made to his hands ever since he was five, and when it came down to it, Sam was just as lethal as his father and brother, maybe even moreso because no one expected it. If his running away to school, the way he left, wasn’t the epitome of fury and determination, Dean doesn’t know what would be.

“You were scared it would magnify?” Dean asks, trying to understand what Sam’s telling him. “And now that you’ve bound yourself to them it is, is that what you mean?” 

“What if I can’t control it?” Sam asks, his eyes the picture of a puppy-dog plea. “Dean, what if the Baron’s right and this was a mistake? What if it drives me crazy and I can’t do anything to stop it?” 

Sam sounds honestly worried but Dean can’t help laughing. The thought is just too ludicrous to believe. “Sammy,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning and shaking his head. “Two reasons why that won’t ever happen.” 

Sam’s eyes narrow and he straightens up, says, “Yeah? Lay it on me, then, Einstein.” 

“Well, for one, you are _the_ most stubborn bitch I’ve ever met,” Dean says, shrugging. “If you don’t want it to happen, it won’t. As long as you don’t try bottling it up, I don’t see how you’d ever let them get the best of you.” Sam opens his mouth, about to argue, and Dean interrupts before Sam can even speak. “Oh, that was nothing, just now. You held yourself back. You could’ve done anything, you know that, right? Black-magic Petro and all you do is push me to the floor and go for my dick? Not a bad thing from where I’m sitting.” 

As if he doesn’t want to waste time arguing, Sam just huffs and asks, “The second?” 

Dean shrugs again; he saw the smile waiting under Sam’s bitch-face. “You’ve got me. I’d never let anything happen to you, either from outside or inside. ‘S’what I’m here for.” 

Sam stands there, as if he can’t believe what Dean’s saying, can’t parse the simple words, then, without saying a word, he moves off the wall, almost faster than Dean can see. He kneels next to the bed, in front of Dean, and slides his hands up Dean’s thighs, up Dean’s stomach, brings them to a halt when they’re lightly squeezing Dean’s shoulders. 

“You deserve your own life,” Sam says. How Dean’s meant to focus on the words when Sam’s mouth is inches from his crotch, when Sam’s warm and _there_, he doesn’t know. “You deserve to make your own choice, Dean.” 

“I have,” Dean says, reaching out with one hand, running his fingers down Sam’s cheek, the other crossing over his own chest to place his hand on top of Sam’s. “At the point of sounding like a teenage girl, what I said down in Savannah still holds, dude. You’re stuck with me. You and me, that’s all that matters. That’s all that’s _ever_ mattered.” 

Sam smiles, leans down, rubs his forehead against Dean’s leg. It’s more subservient than Sam’s ever been, and Dean frowns as he thinks back. Sam’s always bottomed; the thought doesn’t seem right, not with how possessive Sam is otherwise, definitely not being ridden by Petro loa. Of course, he’s been a damned pushy bottom, but still. 

“You ever,” Dean starts to say, though the question dies in his throat when Sam looks up at him, eyes burning, dark. “Fuck,” he breathes. 

He expects Sam to say something smart, definitely does not expect Sam’s hands to glide down feather-light and start undoing the button on Dean’s jeans. “You said you wanted the bed,” Sam says, before leaning forward, undoing the fly with his teeth. He inhales, strokes his teeth across Dean’s boxers, and looks up, adds, “And you said you didn’t want me to bottle anything up,” wicked smile on his face. 

Dean gulps. 

\--

They go through the drive-thru of a fast-food place at noon. Dean grumbles about missing the breakfast menu, but when Sam curls his tongue around a straw and says, “You were the one too lazy to get out of bed this morning,” Dean snorts and throws a French fry at his brother. 

“You were the one who, seriously, dude, shut _up_,” he says. Dean would never admit to being flustered but he never thought he’d see the day when he’d be too fucked out and exhausted to get out of bed, much less by _Sam_. He’s going to have to rethink that whole ‘not holding anything back’ idea if he wants to live to see his next birthday.

“Gravois, crossing Jefferson,” Sam says, smirking. At Dean’s puzzled look, Sam explains, “That’s where we have to go.” 

Dean blinks, tries to play it off, says, “I knew that,” but Sam just settles back into his seat and laughs. The amusement might be at his expense, but Sam laughing is never a bad thing. 

\--

They park in front of a house-turned-apartment building and sit in the car. Dean’s stuffed two double cheeseburgers down, followed by fries, an entire extra-large coke, and a couple of pies, but he’s still hungry, feels like the food has merely tamped down a ravenous appetite to something more human. Sam’s nibbled on some fries, a milkshake, but he hasn’t otherwise touched his meal. “You eating that?” Dean asks, nodding at the bag holding the rest of Sam’s food. 

Sam rolls his eyes, slurps the last dregs of his milkshake, and says, “I’m not and neither are you. Come on, they’ll feed us inside, and better than any fast-food calories.” 

Dean looks over, sees Sam’s eyes gleaming, and finds it mildly disconcerting that he can’t tell whether there are loa swirling there or not. Usually he doesn’t have a problem. “You’re not gonna make a big deal about me going in?” he asks, looking back at the building. He remembers it from their whirlwind tour with Kate: Sam had gone in and come back out ten minutes later, looking exhausted but as if he’d gotten what he came for. 

“Don’t have a choice,” Sam says. Dean looks at his brother, thinks he almost would’ve bought the carefree tone if it wasn’t for the way Sam’s jaw is clenched tight. “If you were any other person we suspected of being Petro-sensitive, you’d be included in any Petro gatherings that happened nearby, you’d be instructed in the most basic Petro rites and rituals, and you’d be mentored by a current _houngon_. As it stands, no matter how much I’d want to keep you out of it, I can’t, not according to our laws.”

“Sam,” Dean says, cautiously. “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re the only one still following your laws? Marinette didn’t, the horses in Chicago didn’t -- and if they were still being ridden, those loa didn’t care.” 

The door to the building opens, and a man stands there, shields his eyes from the sun and stares unerringly in the Impala’s direction. “Not all of them are like that, Dean,” Sam says. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” 

Sam gets out of the Impala, Dean following his lead a moment later, and Dean runs his hand over the Impala’s hood before he walks towards the building and the man holding the door open. Dean reaches back, brushes his hand over the gun tucked into his jeans, and tries to breathe, memorising the guy’s features: short hair with hints of a curl, wide brown eyes, as tall as Dean but bulkier, built like he might’ve played football once upon a time. 

Once Sam gets close enough, the guy holds out his hands; he keeps the door propped open with his hip but reaches forward, takes Sam’s hands and bends to kiss the knuckles. Once that’s done and he stands up, Sam kisses the middle of the guy’s forehead and says, “It’s good to be back.”

“We’re always pleased to have you, _poto mitan_,” the guy says, “and we’ll help in any way we can, of course.” His eyes flick to Dean, then back to Sam, and he raises an eyebrow in silent question. 

“This is Dean,” Sam says, nothing else. 

The guy turns and looks at Dean, studies him until Dean’s ready to ask if he wants to take a picture, but then the guy says, “I’m Tony, the _konfians kay_ of the St. Louis Petro vodouisantes. And you’re Petro-sensitive, right?” He looks back at Sam, asks, “Have you found someone to serve as his _barriè_ yet? We’d be more than happy to offer.” 

“Okay, whoa,” Dean says, holding up one hand. “_Konfians kay_? _Barriè_?” He turns to Sam, says, “Dude. The French is one thing, the Creole is another, but this? It’s like being back at Jim’s.”

Tony smiles and Sam does as well; Dean feels a rush of irrational jealousy. “A _konfians kay_ is the chief advisor to the senior priest or priestess,” Tony explains. “My job is to keep control of the Petro-aligned vodouisantes in St. Louis and the surrounding areas, both the horses and the unridden. I also advise the _poto mitan_ when he asks for my thoughts on an issue. And a _barriè_.” 

He stops, looks at Sam, and Sam picks up almost effortlessly. “I told you what would happen if others guessed you were Petro-sensitive,” Sam says, and Dean doesn’t make a snide remark about how Sam could’ve explained this a lot earlier than five minutes ago. He nods, gives Sam a look, and sees amusement buried way down deep in Sam’s eyes. “_Barriè_ refers to the mentor who helps guide a person from outside of vodou into it.” 

“What you’re doing,” Dean says, half in question, and sees Tony stiffen. Dean looks at Tony, back at Sam, and says, “What? I said something, what was it?” 

Sam doesn’t say anything, but Tony opens his mouth. He hesitates, looking between Dean and Sam, and finally says, “The _poto mitan_ doesn’t usually serve as an initiate’s _barriè_. I was surprised, that’s all. What Sam wants to do is his own business. We’ll support him, no matter what.” 

Dean’s starting to see what Sam meant when he said that the people here were different. If Tony’s for real -- and Dean doesn’t see any surprise in Sam’s eyes, which means he’s used to this kind of reaction -- then there’s a drastic difference between the people here in St. Louis and the ones up in Chicago. If this reaction is what Sam should expect, it’s a miracle Sam did nothing more than mutter vitriol the first time they left Chicago, did nothing more than exorcise their loa this last time. 

“More stubborn than I thought,” Dean mutters. Tony looks confused but Sam just grins. 

“We should go in,” Sam says, addressing Tony. “I have a feeling this meeting’ll take longer than we expected before, what with Dean here and the outcome of the petition. We’ve both identified him as Petro-sensitive and the Chicago group didn’t reject his presence at the petitioning. That’s enough.” 

Dean frowns, especially when Tony nods thoughtfully and says, “This isn’t the best timing with what’s happening, but it could be useful. Do you have any idea who’s interested in him?” 

“It’s a long explanation, but yes,” Sam says, giving Dean a look that’s pretty much a blank plea to wait with the questions. Dean bites his tongue, nods once, though he makes sure Sam knows he isn’t pleased, not at all. “He feels lightning.”

Tony nods again, looks between the two of them, almost as if he’s trying to find something tangible, and finally says, “I see. Come in, then, and we’ll get started. Dean, any questions you have, please ask. This is your first Petro gathering?”

Dean snorts, says, “Not exactly. Look, if something doesn’t make sense, you better believe I’m gonna speak up, but don’t go out of your way for me. Sam’ll clear things up later.”

\--

It doesn’t surprise Dean in the slightest that the room Tony leads them to is done up in the same colour scheme as the other vodou-related places Dean’s seen: black and white, liberal dashes of red, vévés everywhere. There are a few things he hasn’t seen before, though: a few drums of different sizes, what looks like an altar at one end, and the room smells like thick stew, hearty and spicy. The people here, as well, they’re different from the others. The Petro in Louisiana had been almost combative, the ones in Chicago quiet, silent, but all three dozen or so crammed into this room turn when Sam steps into the room, like flowers reaching for the sun. 

Sam moves among them and as he stands in front of one of the vodouisantes, he or she stands, greets Sam the same way that Tony had outside, kissing Sam’s knuckles and then accepting a kiss from Sam. They aren’t scared to touch him, almost linger over Sam’s hands, which has Dean wondering if this ritualistic greeting is different from casual touch, the kind Larry shied away from, the kind Pierre implied Sam would never get again. 

From what Dean overhears, Sam knows each person who greets him, asks them one or two personal questions, engaging them in conversation, and they all glow, answering. Dean’s beginning to see why his brother is so good at what he does, why he’s willing to take on every aspect of this position no matter how much he doesn’t like some of them. 

“He’s the only _poto mitan_ many of us have known,” Tony says quietly, sticking at Dean’s elbow, as if he knows what Dean’s thinking. “But he’s a great one. We were concerned at first; not many of the previous were sympathetic to the Petro. When he rejected Marinette, we were worried, but he worked well with Erzulie’s faces and didn’t mind being her Petro face’s only _cheval_. After the news came out of Louisiana and we found out he was one of the first singular trinities in many years and he was also a purely Petro trinity.” Tony trails off, shakes his head. Dean sees pride on the man’s face.

“Too many underestimate the Petro loa and horses both,” Dean says, thoughtful as ever, seeing his brother in this light, trying to reconcile this new information with what he already knows. 

Tony looks at him, nods, returns Dean’s thoughtful look. “He’s taught you that, at least. It’s useful, I won’t deny it, but we don’t necessarily _like_ it.” From across the room, Sam turns and glances at them, almost as if he can hear what they’re saying. With the loa, maybe he can. “Can I ask you a personal question, Dean? If you don’t want to answer, tell me to fuck off.” Dean nods, wants to reach for his gun, the feeling of security it brings, but doesn’t move. Sam’s still watching them. “Have you two had sex?” 

Dean tilts his head, asks, “Why?” in as friendly and blank a tone as he can. 

“Because you have bite marks sticking out from under your shirt collar,” Tony replies, just as evenly, “and the two of you seem attuned. You work better than he did with his old trinity, that’s for damn sure, and you’re not even one of us yet. Either you’ve known each other a long time or you’ve gotten to know each other’s bodies; wearing marks like you are, I’m guessing you’re seeing how possessive the Petro can be. I just don’t know whether you learnt that under his pleasure or his anger.” 

Dean can’t stop the grin that crosses his face at Tony’s words. It’s not that he didn’t like Sophie and Théo, not when he’d reached some kind of understanding with the older twin, but, thinking about it, even now, makes him jealous, angry. To know that someone else can see that he and Sam are better together than Sam and those two, it floods him with vindictive, vicious satisfaction. 

“We’ve had sex,” he says, watching Sam complete a full circuit of everyone in the room. “That was the only reason I was accepted at the Petro gathering in Ascension parish.” He pauses, adds, “Well, that was with Danny, technically, but Sam and I later, yeah.” 

Tony stares at him, but before Dean can ask what it is that he’s said _this_ time, Sam’s standing in front of them, one eyebrow raised. “Are we ready to begin, Tony?” Sam asks, amused look on his face. 

“Yes,” Tony says, after a moment’s pause, clearly startled, lost in his thoughts. “Forgive me. Yes, we’re ready if you are.”

Sam inclines his head, arms open, to Tony, and says, loudly, everyone else in the room falling silent the instant Sam does his little quarter-bow, “_Konfians kay_ of the St. Louis Petro community, I ask you to call the _hountogi_.”

_Hountogi_, that’s a word Dean remembers Lissa using. Drummers. Dean’s eyes flick as one section of the room sits up straighter, shifts his balance as Sam and Tony trade places. He’s not expecting any explanation from Sam and doesn’t want to ask for one in case he misses anything, but Sam reaches over, rubs his thumb across Dean’s hand, and when Dean looks at his little brother, he sees Sam smiling, relaxed and at ease.

Tony walks over to the people in one corner of the room, the ones who’d straightened up before, and, after a moment, points at six of them. They all stand, retrieve drums from the corner of the room nearest the altar, and sit between the people gathered at the edges of the room and the open centre. 

They start drumming, fast, off-beat from each other, and Dean feels the echo of their rhythm sink through that ache in the back of his head, down in to his bones. He watches as Tony takes a small urn, draws out a handful of what looks like black dust, and moves light on his feet through the middle of the room, drawing out rough vévés. 

“The drums are called _tanbou fey_,” Sam murmurs, leaning over, whispering directly in Dean’s ear. It’s not sexual, the tone and the words are both entirely instructional, but Dean still feels his dick start to harden, Sam’s breath moist on his ear, lips almost close enough to tickle the skin. “They’re only used by the Petro. Tony’s tracing out vévés using _farin ginen_, charcoal ash, which, again, only the Petro use. Once he’s done, he’ll begin chanting and all of the horses here will join in. They’re getting the loas’ attention, asking Legba Atibon to open the doors and allow his brethren to come down and choose people here to ride.”

Sam stops speaking but he doesn’t move away. Dean can’t focus on what’s going on, no matter how enthralling it is to see vodou rites from this perspective, knowing what’s actually happening from the inside instead of guessing from the outside. Looking around, seeing people lifting their faces to the ceiling, eyes closed and smiling, listening as people pressed here and there among the crowd start chanting in a Creole that his charm’s actually working to translate, he can’t imagine how he ever thought these people deserved death. 

“If anyone understands, the Petro do,” Sam whispers. No wonder Tony thought they were in sync, not when Sam’s been able to practically read Dean’s mind since he was old enough to differentiate between the two of them, different toes to play ‘this little piggy’ on, different fingers to teeth on, different bodies to cling to in the middle of dark nights. 

Four people step into the middle of the room, whirling around the vévés, feet kicking up patterns on the carpet. Tony, chanting, looks at each of them and then at Sam, inclining his head in what Dean thinks is a question. 

“It’s called an _asson_,” Sam says, and before Dean can ask what Sam’s talking about, Sam steps out as well. Tony moves to the altar, picks up something that looks like a gourd, painted over in red and strung with beads, bones, bells. Tony handles it carefully, hands it to Sam, who receives it with two outstretched hands and a slight bow. 

The drumming comes to a crescendo then stops, and Sam lifts up the gourd and brings it down in a slashing motion; the rattle of things inside rings out and makes Dean’s toes curl. He feels the urge to move, to open his mouth and scream, feels lightning like fingers at the back of his skull, vibrating through his body, and plants his feet, regulates his breathing, inhale through the nose, exhale through clamped-together teeth. 

Sam moves, almost dancing, shaking the gourd-rattle as he slides his way around each vévé. He swishes the rattle through the charcoal dust and as the airflow disrupts the lines of the vévé, the person standing next to the vévé falls to the floor, body in the thrall of what looks like paralytic seizures. Dean swallows as all four writhe on the floor, noises like hissing coming out of their mouths, because what Sam’s done, it’s called the loa down and these four, they’re being mounted. 

The _asson_ gets returned to the altar, placed in the middle, and Tony gestures for someone at the far end to come forward. Dean looks, sees a woman holding a chicken in each hand, fingers curled tight around scrawny legs. He swallows, guessing what’s coming, and watches as Tony holds a dish under one chicken’s neck, as Sam takes a knife and slices pure silver across the bird’s neck. It flaps, spatters blood over Sam, Tony, and the woman, but none of them flinch, just stand there until the blood’s drained and the bird’s dead. 

The process is repeated with the other chicken and the woman steps back as Tony takes the bowl of blood to each of the four horses, sweating but motionless on the floor, catching their breath. Tony says something too quietly for Dean to catch, but the _konfians kay_ tilts the bowl and lets each of the four drink before he goes back to Sam. Sam drains the rest of the blood, then hands the knife to Tony. 

The _konfians kay_ goes to the altar, the woman following him, and the chickens are hacked to pieces, feathers fluttering in the air, littering the floor, peaceful inverse to the stench of death starting to spread through the room. Half of the meat, along with the bones, get taken out of the room, though Tony splits the other half of the meat among the four horses. 

Dean thinks that something about this should be pinging on his radar. He and Sam were both were taught that animal sacrifices lead to human sacrifices, given enough time, better to stop whoever’s cutting up chickens or goats or pigs before they escalated up the food chain. No wonder Sam had problems with this when he stumbled into that café in San Francisco. 

For all that Sam’s had years to come to terms with this, Dean hasn’t, and yet he isn’t even scrunching his nose in any form of complaint. Instead, his throat’s dry and that chicken blood looks pretty good; lightning seems like it’s firing behind his eyes, turning the blood into something far more appetising. His stomach growls, the hunger from before returning with a vengeance. 

The four loa-ridden tear chunks of the raw chicken, swallowing it down. A different man comes out with a tray holding four bowls filled with a type of rum that Dean can smell from across the room; each of the ridden are given a bowl that they guzzle from, then they pour the remainder out on the remnants of the vévés. 

“Time a-coming,” one of the ridden says, red stains on his teeth, “we think maybe you gonna get serious ‘bout reining in all these buckaloose _chevaux_, _poto mitan_.” 

Sam grins, runs one hand through his hair, and says, dryly, “My apologies, Krabiney. Given everything else that’s occurred during the time of my leadership, I think I could be allowed a little leeway. Regardless,” he goes on, more seriously, “I’ve begun what you and the others wanted. My determination on the Chicago community won’t reverse, not until I see signs of change.”

“And we approve,” one of the other ridden says. “See that you don’t hesitate.” 

“Danny in my head, I doubt I’ll be given the chance,” Sam says. Dean recognises the mulish look on his brother’s face, the stubborn tilt of Sam’s eyebrows, and he wants to raise an eyebrow because the loa should really know better than to push. Sam taking so long, holding back, it might be in part because the loa have been acting this way and he’s trying to teach them a message just as much as he’s teaching their devotees. 

One of the other ridden stands up, ignores everyone else, and limps over to where Dean’s at. The woman pauses in front of Dean, stares, then narrows her eyes; when she speaks, it’s in a man’s voice. “I made that barrier as tight as I could, and Karrefour put his own touch on it. You been asking anyone in, boy?” 

Dean feels phantom fingers glide over his head, settle over the ache, and it soothes, the lightning sharp and crackling as it slides out of Dean and into that ghostly touch. “Ti-Jean,” he guesses, and the woman’s lips curve in a parody of a smile. “Um. No?” He glances at Sam, at Tony, sees everyone else watching him as well. “I just. It just started.” 

“Leave ‘im be,” the fourth horse says, lounging over the fourth vévé, picking between his teeth with a knife. Dean sees Sam’s eyes close, an almost imperceptible shudder starting at Sam’s hair and working its way through every muscle. Sam’s hands clench into fists at his sides then relax; Dean doesn’t understand why Sam’s reacting as if he wants to run over to whoever that loa is, that or run away. 

The woman in front of Dean grins, baring her teeth, and says, “Oh, Ogou, you _kochon_.”

The man ridden by Ogou, Dean assumes, stands up, looks lethal, and says, “Danny ain’t gonna mind, Ti-Jean. She don’t, you don’t worry yourself ‘bout it.” 

“Could we focus here?” Sam asks. “I need to get south and if the four of you don’t settle down, we’ll be another half-dozen boxes closer to anarchy before I even get out of St. Louis.”

One by one, the four horses all nod, move to sit, sprawl, kneel near their respective vévés, and Dean witnesses his second Petro gathering, this time with much less sex. 

\--

Four hours later, he’s exhausted. Sam and Tony have been on their feet the entire time, Tony watching from the edges as Sam paces back and forth, interrogating the loa, bargaining with them, trying to stop Ti-Jean and Ogou from sniping at each other, trying to rein in Krabiney, trying to keep the other one, who Dean’s never picked up a name for, interested in what’s going on. Dean thinks it pretty much comes down to this: Sam needed to know something from the loa, something different than he asked the people in Chicago. What that is, though, Dean doesn’t know. Sam has been asking all kinds of questions, switching between English and Creole with a fluency that has Dean’s head aching in sympathy, all of the questions seemingly unrelated. 

He’s done now, though, apparently. Sam thanks each of the loa separately, and Krabiney and the fourth loa leave their horses shaking on the floor. 

“We’ll check tonight,” Ti-Jean says, looking right at Sam. “And if the warring _kochon_’s right, well. That changes everything, doesn’t it.” 

“It doesn’t change a thing,” Sam replies, harsh, almost biting, “and you fucking well know it. Danny and I’ve both made our choice, Ti-Jean, and you know why and how. Now, I’ve put up with enough from you for long enough, so give it a rest. We’re not going to change our minds so you’re going to have to deal. The sooner you get that through your thick skull the better.”

Ti-Jean grins, licks his teeth, and says, “But it’s a pot-full more fun to argue in front of an audience, _idyo_. Don’t tell me you forgot ‘bout everyone else here.” Sam starts at that, looks around the room, and people chuckle as he admits that he has. “I’ll abide for now,” Ti-Jean says, softer, before he leaves his rider. 

Sam turns, looks at the fourth, the one he’s talked to but avoided as much as possible for the past four hours. The horse carrying Ogou stands, walks over to Sam, and cups his cheek; Dean feels like elbowing everyone out of his way and staking his claim on Sam at the same time that he feels an intense satisfaction. It’s strange, almost like there are two different sides to him feeling two different things. 

The horse glances over at Dean, winks, then looks back at Sam and says, “When’re you gonna admit what’s happenin’, _trezò_? Only so long you can hold out b’fore I go ‘round you and deal with your loa instead.” 

Sam narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Try me,” Ogou replies, grinning. Before Sam can say anything to that, the horse closes the distance between them and kisses Sam. Dean can see tongue from across the room, watches as Sam moans and wraps his hands around the horse’s neck. “See there, _trezò_?” Ogou purrs, breaking it off, tilting his head back when Sam, eyes closed, tries to keep the kiss going. “Talk to the dwarf and take it off.” 

“Ti-Jean was right,” Sam grumbles, even though there’s a silly smile on his face. “You’re a fucking _kochon_.”

Ogou’s grin turns predatory as he says, “And you love it.” 

The horse falls to the ground, shaking as the loa leaves, and Sam’s eyes scan the crowded room, settling on Dean. As if he’s just realised what he’s done, Sam’s eyes widen and he starts to pale. Tony can see what’s happening, claps his hands together and says, “Time for _tchaka_, I think. The _poto mitan_ and I’ll finish up here.”

People start filtering out, clearing the room until only Tony, Sam, the four horses, and Dean are left. The four horses are lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, and they don’t look like they’re going to move any time soon. Tony kneels between two of them, talking softly, clearly giving Sam and Dean space on the other side of the room, away from the vévés and random drops of chicken blood on the floor. 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam starts to say, but Dean shakes his head, takes hold of Sam’s belt loops and tugs him forward, fitting them together, bodies flush, eating the rest of Sam’s apology out of Sam’s mouth. The noise Sam makes isn’t like any Dean heard last night but it’s close. Sam doesn’t wrap his hands around Dean’s neck, instead fitting them into the back pockets of Dean’s jeans, pressing as close to Dean as he can when they’re both still dressed. 

“What were you talking about with Ti-Jean and Ogou?” Dean asks, in between nibbles of Sam’s neck. Sam arches, makes an unintelligible noise; Dean knows this isn’t fair but he doesn’t care. “C’mon, Sam. Tell me what you were talking about.” 

Sam looks at him, pupils flushed and broken wide, cheeks dotted with red. “You’re a bastard. You know that, right?” 

Dean grinds against Sam, gives his brother a saucy grin, and says, “Tell me, Sam.” He pushes his hands up under Sam’s shirt, rakes his nails down Sam’s back, and murmurs, “You and Ti-Jean, what’re you checking tonight, Sam? And what was Ogou talking about, going around you to your riders?” 

“Fucker,” Sam groans, as Dean walks him backwards, pushes him against the wall and shoves his thigh between Sam’s legs. Dean’s fingers skitter against Sam’s hips and, as he bites Sam’s adam’s apple, Sam pants out, “I hate you.” 

“You love me,” Dean purrs. “Now tell me.” 

Sam’s head tilts back, thumps against the wall. “It’s Ogou.” Dean makes an inquiring noise, humming around Sam’s earlobe. “The lightning. Ti-Jean wants to check the block he put on.” 

Dean should really be more upset, should stop and demand to know more, but he can put two and two together to come up with four. Sam already looks fucked out and Dean’s more interested in making that a reality rather than just an appearance, will deal with talk of Ogou later. He’s trying to decide whether to drop to his knees or turn Sam around when someone behind them coughs. Sam groans and Dean thunks his head against Sam’s shoulder. 

“Oh, don’t stop on our account.” Tony says. He sounds amused, if a little stunned; Dean has enough experience to recognise that tone of voice. “I was just. A block?” 

Dean looks at Sam, Sam looking at him already, and the two of them silently agree to pick this up later, to deal with the vodouisantes and get on the road to New Orleans as fast as possible. 

“A block,” Sam agrees. Dean untangles himself, doesn’t feel any shame when he rests against the wall next to Sam and palms his dick through his jeans. He’s surprised, though, when Sam goes on to explain, “One of the ones Ti-Jean, Karrefour, and I put in during the chaos with Marinette.” Obviously Sam trusts this guy even more than Dean had guessed. 

Tony stares at Sam, lips parted in what looks like shock. “Marinette? He’s one of them? And now _Ogou_ wants to ride him?”

Sam chuckles, deep in his throat, and says, “Both of them love Danny and both of them look for much the same in a horse. Is it any surprise?” Sam pushes off the wall, stalks around Tony, and Dean crosses his arms, watching his brother. Sam gets to the doorway, the one everyone else has already gone through, and raises an eyebrow. “Coming?” 

“Not yet,” Dean mutters, and Tony swings his stare between them, still looking perplexed. 

\--

_Tchaka_ is a type of stew, the source of that smell Dean noticed when he walked into the ritual room. Sam fills a bowl, nods for Dean to grab a seat at one of the tables, and when Dean’s sitting, smiling politely at the people staring fish-eyed at him, Sam drapes himself on Dean’s lap and scoops up a spoonful of stew. 

“Open wide,” Sam instructs, and though he sounds matter-of-fact about it, Dean can pick out hesitation lurking around Sam’s smile. He’s not sure why, not until he flicks his eyes around and sees that only half of the people in the room have a bowl in front of them. 

“Some kind of voodoo thing?” Dean asks, before doing as instructed, opening his mouth wide. Sam drops the stew into Dean’s mouth and Dean savours the taste before swallowing. He can feel the heat of it slide down his throat and the spices linger in his mouth; Dean chews and tastes chicken. He wonders if this is the same chicken that was killed earlier, guesses that it is and decides he doesn’t want to know. 

Sam scoops up a bite for himself, swallows without chewing. “A sacred meal,” he says. Dean can smell spices and Sam mixed together and wants more. “Hence the sharing. Ritual, but it fills a hole in the stomach that not much else can, especially after a ceremony.” 

They eat more, trading off bites, make plans to head down south, and as time passes, slow and sticky like thick honey, Sam folds more and more into Dean’s body until his cheek’s resting against Dean’s shoulder, nose a cold spot against Dean’s neck. 

“Should I ask why they’re all watching us?” Dean asks quietly, once Tony’s come in, noticed Sam and Dean, missed a step. 

“Because they’ve never seen me act like this before.” Sam stirs a little and Dean can feel breath on his skin. “Because they don’t know what it means.” 

Dean ducks his head to hide a smile from these people, their calculating eyes and wondering expressions. He’s not ashamed, not at all, but it feels like they’re too close to him and Sam, too involved with the Winchesters. After a life spent on the verges of society, to be with someone so important and under the scrutiny of this many people at once is unsettling. 

“We should get going,” Dean finally says. “If we leave now, we’ll miss rush hour out of the city. We could hit Clarksdale before midnight, catch a few hours of sleep before New Orleans tomorrow afternoon.” He pauses, adds, “Unless we need to drive straight through.” 

The thought isn’t the most appealing, so he’s relieved when Sam says, “They’ve waited this long to ask me to come down, it can wait another day. We’ll find a motel, a half-decent one this time, and pick up where we left off earlier.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asks. He knows his whisper is molasses-smooth, and when Sam shifts on his lap, darts out his tongue and licks Dean’s neck, he can’t help a triumphant smile, one that turns pained when Sam _moves_ and Dean’s dick, just settling down from before, perks right back up again. “Dude. Not fair.” 

Sam laughs, unwinds himself and stands up, gestures for Tony to meet him in the other room. Dean watches as Tony moves, instantly, leaving his bowl of stew with the woman who’d held the chickens, Dean thinks, and then sees Sam move through between the tables, saying goodbye to everyone. 

Dean gets up, saunters over to lean against the wall, waiting for his brother, keeping an eye on Sam. He doesn’t expect it when one of the people comes up to him, says, “It’s an honour to’ve met you,” and leans forward, kisses Dean’s cheeks. “Take care of him.” The man grins, knowing smile, and adds, “And her.” 

He’s not sure how to respond to that, so Dean just says, “Yeah, I will,” and watches the man walk away, his frown an inverse reflection of the man’s smile. Dean waits until Sam’s within whispering distance, then mutters, “What the hell was that all about?” 

“Acceptance,” Sam replies, just as quietly, and he waves to the group at large as the two walk out, into the ritual room and towards the door leading outside. 

Dean’s not sure how to respond to that so he keeps his mouth closed for now, lets Sam and Tony embrace and makes sure he doesn’t get close to the altar, the four horses sleeping in a big pile to one side, or the traces of charcoal dust ground into the floor. 

“You’ll get there tomorrow?” Tony’s asking, and, after Sam nods, asks, “Will you want anyone from here to meet you? I’ve got some time saved up at work and several of the others have offered. I’m sure the Rada-followers would be willing; they were disappointed they wouldn’t get to see you on this trip.” 

“Not for now,” Sam replies. He glances at Dean and Dean can see loa swirling in his brother’s eyes. “We’ll send word if we need reinforcements. There are a couple coming over from Biloxi; between them and the greater New Orleans community, we should be all right.”

Tony nods as if he doesn’t like what he’s hearing but won’t ever argue. “Drive safe, _poto mitan_.” The man glances at Dean, inclines his head, and says, “It was good to meet you, Dean. I wish you luck on your journeys.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s cool outside, a crisp smack in the face. Dean hadn’t realised it was so warm in the building but now, it’s like the opposite of being outside in the middle of summer and going into the freezer section of a grocery store. 

There’s a hint of a smile on Sam’s face when Dean gets into the car and turns the heat on, a hint of a smile on Sam’s lips and a touch of worry in Sam’s eyes, but Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean doesn’t ask. Instead, Sam holds up the bag of fast food from before and waves it in front of Dean’s face. “Still hungry?” 

Dean grimaces, says, “Hell no,” at the thought of cold fries and then pauses, because he was starved before they went inside and it’s been six hours and he’s only had half a bowl of stew. He’s not at all hungry, feels warm and full, lazy like he’s just gone through an all-you-can-eat buffet a couple times and could do with a nap. “Huh. Sacred. Out past the barracks?” 

“Sounds good,” Sam says, and Dean heads south towards Jefferson Barracks and US-67. “We’ll be going through Bonne Terre, won’t we?” 

“Pretty damn close to it,” Dean says, looking sideways at his brother, then past Sam to hang a right getting back on to one of the main roads. “Why?” 

Sam pulls out his phone, starts going through the phonebook, scrolling beeps giving his short -- and utterly useless -- answer a rhythmic background. “I need to pick something up.” 

Dean frowns, thinks about pushing but figures he’ll get an explanation in about ninety minutes, give or take for traffic. When Sam has a short, curt conversation in French, Dean decides that his brother’s going to _appreciate_ what effect this is having on Dean’s patience.

\--

They’re in Bonne Terre for all of five minutes, barely long enough for Dean get out of the Impala and take advantage of his last opportunity to stretch for the next few hours. Sam disappears into the local library and comes out two minutes later, carefully carrying a small box made out of dark wood. Sam sits down in the passenger seat, rests the box on his lap, and keeps one hand on it at all times, using one hand to buckle his seat belt, using the other to scratch at his nose. There’s something vaguely ominous about that box though Dean can’t figure out why or what. 

“What’s that?” Dean asks, getting back into the car, buckling his seat belt. He puts the Impala in gear and heads for the turn to get back on US-67. 

“Curse box,” Sam says, and Dean nearly misses the turn. 

Dean looks over at his brother, says, “Excuse me?” and isn’t at all relieved when Sam merely grits his teeth and stares out of the front window. “Sam,” he says, pulling over, “you can’t honestly.” Dean stops, takes a deep breath. “That’s a _curse box_? What the fuck’s in it?” 

It takes five minutes before Sam says, “I don’t know.” Dean’s about to call bullshit, because Sam has to know _something_ about it based on the way he’s acting, but then Sam says, “I know what I put in here, but it’s been a couple years and it wasn’t exactly.” He stops, takes another minute’s time before he finishes his thought. “Stable. So no, I don’t know what’s in here now.” 

Dean narrows his eyes and very carefully doesn’t look at his brother. “What did you put in it?” 

“An _esprit_,” Sam says, looking down at the box. Dean glances at the path that Sam’s thumbs are making rubbing the lid; he frowns, seeing a vévé carved into the wood. “A spirit. The soul of a priest who died. We should have sent it on, but at the ceremony, after I lifted the _esprit_ into the jar of water, like normal, we covered the jar with a piece of black cloth and trapped the _esprit_. We knew it wouldn’t be safe to leave it out, so we had a curse box made and locked in the soul.” 

There are no words. Dean’s heard stories about voodoo priests before but he’d been relaxing into thinking that the religion Sam practices -- vodou and not voodoo -- is different. This doesn’t _sound_ different. Hollywood makes zombies, sure, but Marinette called up revenants and Sam can apparently make prisoners out of _souls_, so how is that any different from Hollywood, from all of the worst things Dean’s ever heard about vodou? 

“You trapped a person’s soul,” he says, tone flat. “You and who else? Why did you keep it? And why the hell are we taking it with us?” 

Sam sighs, scratches one thumbnail against the wood. Like nails on a chalkboard, the sound filters into Dean’s ears and makes him shiver, teeth clenched against the intrusion. “He was a _cheval_ for one of the second-sighted loa,” Sam says. “He asked us to, otherwise, fuck, no way in hell would I mess about with this, not for all the money in the world. I might be bound to black magic Petro, but even they think twice about pulling shit like this. The _houngon_’s _esprit_, he told me where to keep the box, that something about Papa Midnight might happen, that if it came down to it, I should trust the loa and open the box.” 

“You and who else, Sam,” Dean asks, voice low, furious. 

“Karrefour,” Sam says, after shifting in his seat. He doesn’t sound like he’s finished, so Dean waits, and Sam finally adds, almost too quietly for Dean to catch, “And Marinette.” 

Dean takes a deep breath and asks, “This was before you were _poto-mitan_, then, because Marinette never rode you after that.”

Sam adjusts his hold on the box. Dean sees something in the curve of Sam’s wrists, the arch of Sam’s neck, that reminds him of the night in the motel room, Sam curled up on the bed, plaintive and leaking a sadness so deep that Dean still felt it when they left in the morning, imprinted on everything in the room. 

“She wasn’t riding me,” Sam whispers. His hair’s covering his face when Dean tries to see what sort of expression Sam’s wearing. “I was the _poto mitan_ and she was angry at me, so fucking angry, but her _cheval_ was one of the most stubborn women I’ve ever known and she owed me.” Sam’s voice breaks. “They both owed me favours. Karrefour rode me, rode me pretty damn hard, and Marinette was right there.”

Dean sighs, resists the urge to rub his temples. “Dude. You gotta give it up, okay? She was a bitch, end of story. She didn’t follow any of your rules, she fucking _hijacked_ me, tried to kill Kate more than once. You did what you had to and now you need to move the fuck on.” Sam doesn’t respond, so Dean puts one hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezes, and then gives Sam a shake. “Why her, anyway? You fit better with Danny, you picked Lakwa, she wasn’t even there when you formed the trinity with Sophie and Théo.”

Sam straightens up, fingers white on the box. “It’s not important.” Dean’s ready to argue because it obviously _is_, but Sam’s jaw clenches and he stares straight out the front window. Dean knows that look means he’s not going to get anything out of his brother so he shakes his head, blinks, and gets the car moving again. 

\--

Sam refuses to let the box out of his grip. Dean doesn’t know what a box, even a curse box, is going to do, like grow legs and walk away, but every time he looks at the wood, at the carved vévés, he gets the feeling that the box is radiating with power, that something dangerous is seeping out through the smooth wood-grain. 

Even in the same bed, pressed tight against his brother, Dean can’t pull up the same need he felt before, not with that box in the bed as well. It’s no consolation, but Sam doesn’t seem keen on sex either; at this rate, Dean’s going to go crazy before he gets to fuck Sam again. 

\--

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must, because Dean finds himself standing in the middle of a barren field, surrounded by dead bodies. He looks around, looks down, and his hands are covered in blood. 

“Weird fucking shit,” Dean mutters. 

A laugh rings out behind him and Dean turns, holding up a machete. He looks at the weapon in puzzlement because he didn’t have it a minute ago, didn’t have any kind of weapon within reach that he saw. Lightning cracks across the horizon, hits a pile of something across the field, and fire explodes into the sky.

“Too tired to talk,” the man says. He steps closer, dressed all in red, smelling of rum. “My poor _trezò_, all snugged up with _l’esprit_ and caught in his own memories. Feeling left out, Dean Winchester? Feeling like you oughta be doing something you ain’t?” 

Dean frowns, steps forward. There’s another laugh behind him and Dean whirls, sees a woman, coquettish, wearing red silks with roses twined in her hair. “Oh, chile,” she drawls, stepping lightly towards them. “We all warned my _chwal_.” She shakes her head, as if in grief, and adds, “He’s too caught up in my sister’s banishment. Can’t say as I blame ‘im, not when I miss her too, but there’s mourning and then there’s _mourning_. Y’all be careful or he’ll go down there to Midnight’s _sosyete_ and let her free.” 

“We’ve seen it,” someone else says, walking out of the fire, towards the man and woman. “We all warned him. You gonna stop him or let it happen? You love him enough to stop him, boy?”

“Karrefour,” Dean says, half-question, head tilted as he squints, trying to memorise their features. “And Danny. But.” He stops, lightning cracks overhead, close enough to leave his ears ringing. “Ogou?” 

The man, flanked by Danny on one side and Karrefour on the other, inclines his head. “Pleasure to meet you. _Cheval_.” 

\--

Dean howls into wakefulness, rocketing out of the bed, his ears still ringing, the phantom feeling of cold metal in one hand. Before he can catch his breath, his eyes land on Sam, sitting sprawled out and lazy-lidded in the seat opposite the bed. 

“Sam,” he pants, staring at his brother, at the way that Sam’s just sitting there, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Nightmare, that’s all. Just a nightmare.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Ti-Jean answers. His eyes sharpen, visible signs of the loa inside, but he doesn’t move. “More than a nightmare, Dean. The _idyo_ fell asleep and we said we was gonna check the block I put on you. Block’s gonna have to come off or it’ll split in two. Ogou’s determined to have you and there’s nothing can stand in the way of the bloody-minded _kochon_ when he gets stuck on something.” 

Dean stares at Ti-Jean and can only think to ask, “What’s that mean? _Kochon_, what is that?” 

Ti-Jean grins, and Dean blinks, thinking for a split-second he saw blood covering Ti-Jean’s mouth, teeth. “Your rider,” the dwarf says. “He’s a pig, a _kochon_. Now, am I to be taking that block off now or are you gonna take your chances praying to _le gran met_? Bondye bless, Dean, it’ll happen at the worst time if you leave it on. Ogou’s nothing if he ain’t a Petro.” 

“I think I’d like to talk to Sam,” Dean says. He watches his brother blink but can’t feel a thing; numbness has settled on him in the wake of that nightmare, the brief conversation with Ti-Jean doing nothing to help. Sam’s back, leaning forward, looking as if he doesn’t know whether to wait for an engraved invitation before moving. Sam’s hand twitches and Dean can tell that Sam’s holding himself back from going to Dean, reaching out. “Sam,” Dean says, and that’s enough. 

He finds himself being pulled backwards on the bed, into Sam’s hold. He curls up, feeling light-headed, almost dizzy, and asks, “Where’s the box?” because nothing else seems to make sense right now, nothing except that when Dean woke up, the box was nowhere near Sam, and Sam hasn’t grabbed hold of it. 

“Ti-Jean and I put another layer of binding on it,” Sam murmurs, nosing at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, “as well as some charms to make sure no one else can see it. It’s all right. What about you? I’m. Dean, I’m so sorry. I thought they’d wait, even Danny seemed like she’d wait for a better time. I never thought they’d go into you like that.” 

“It wasn’t a dream then,” Dean half-says, testing the words out. “What happened, it wasn’t a dream.” Sam doesn’t say anything, just holds Dean tighter, as though he might be able to physically merge his body with Dean’s if he can just get close enough. “Did you see it?” 

Sam swallows; Dean can feel it against his skin. “Dean. Ogou was staking a claim on you. Anyone who’s ridden by any of the three saw it.” He pauses, licks the shell of Dean’s ear, and murmurs, “You were incredible. You stood there and faced all three of them, you were even able to call a weapon to hand.” 

“That’s what they really look like?” Dean asks, thinking of Ogou, half-naked, wearing red and reeking of rum. Karrefour, that doesn’t surprise him, but bringing Danny to mind, her smooth skin, the perfectly styled curls of dark hair, the way the silks rustled around her as she moved, it sends a thrill of lightning down his spine, curling his toes. 

Sam hums, asks, apropos of nothing, “Did you know that Danny and Ogou are married?” Dean hears Sam’s words and then he _hears_ them; they make him catch, bring him back to earth. Why, he’s not sure, except then Sam says, “And you called a machete, which is Ogou’s favourite weapon.” His mind races, linking things together; he might not be as smart as Sam or have as much training as their father, but he’s got good instincts, can sniff things out, and together, it all starts making a ridiculous amount of sense. 

“You’re the only one Danny rides,” Dean says, slowly, with things still fitting together, jigsaw pieces of clues and little things he’s heard falling into place. “And she’s your favourite of the three you’ve bound yourself to. She’s claimed me and so have you, and I summoned up Ogou’s favourite weapon. He’s picked me to be one of his horses.” He stops there, then asks, chest tight, “As his favourite? To always be with the _poto mitan_ and Danny?” 

“And to always be with me,” Sam says, quietly. His hands, splayed out on Dean’s stomach, tighten just enough for Dean to notice. “Because he knows how much I love you and need you. This way, no one will be able to argue with that. And you _are_ a good choice for him, a good fit. It could be worse, Dean.” 

Dean shifts, turns over and looks his brother in the eyes. “He can’t ride me unless I consent though. Right?” 

Sam holds Dean’s gaze and replies, “Not without repercussions. He’ll have to break the block first, unless I take it off, but if you don’t invite him in after that and he still rides you, I’ll have to take measures.” 

Dean exhales, rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “Not yet,” he says. “Sam, I need more time.”

“Would you,” Sam starts to say, then cuts himself off and says, “Okay. More time.”

“Wait. What were you going to say?” Dean asks, turning his head to look at Sam. “_What_?”

Sam shakes his head, and even through his own confusion, his own inner turmoil, Dean can see the same expression on Sam’s face that had been there when Dean had first confessed he felt lightning: longing and resignation. “Get some sleep, Dean,” Sam murmurs, and curls up, resting his head on Dean’s chest, tangling his legs in with Dean’s. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Dean starts drifting off, Sam’s hair soft and smooth under his hand. The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is the muffled sound of Sam crying, in between a repetition of, “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry.” 

\--

Dean wakes up from a deep, dreamless sleep, going from groggy to wide-awake the instant he realises Sam's not laying next to him. He sits up, looks around, sees the door to the bathroom wide open and the front door shut. Dean gets up, slips on jeans and boots, throws open the front door and winces in the bright sunshine. The Impala's parked right where Dean'd left it the night before but there's no sign of Sam. 

Swallowing back panic at the thought that Sam’s left, either voluntarily or with the loa ordering him to, Dean stands there, scanning left to right, then sees movement in the lobby. He’s moving before he can bear to hope; his breath comes out in an exhale when Sam steps out of the door holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and two donuts in the other. 

Sam freezes, stares, and when Dean gets closer, one or two steps, says, “I’m sorry. I thought.” He breathes, pastes on a smile, and says, much more cheerfully, “Breakfast? Grabbed you some coffee and the last two jelly-filled. Nothing else looked good. I think their bagels are about three weeks old.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything, can’t. Sam’s smile falters and Dean closes the gap between them, grabbing Sam’s face in his hands, pressing his lips against Sam’s, bruising, trying to mark his own place there. “Don’t leave,” he murmurs, breathing the words into Sam’s mouth. It’s the most painfully honest he’s ever been, the most flayed apart and stripped raw, and he hates it, hates the feeling. 

“Never,” Sam says, forehead against Dean’s. “You and me, together, remember?”

That refrain, Dean thinks, leading Sam back to their room, is the only thing that reassures him. 

\--

Sam puts the coffee and the donuts down, stares at Dean. 

Dean, sitting down on the edge of the bed, taking his boots off, looks up and asks, “What?” Sam shakes his head, pulls out the chair he’d been sitting in last night. “I didn’t dream last night, did I,” Dean says. “All of that, the loa, waking up and talking to Ti-Jean, you. It all happened.” He still feels shell-shocked but the numbness is starting to fade away, slipping out of his reach faster and faster with every second that Sam doesn’t say anything. 

“It all happened,” Sam finally says, except that Dean doesn’t know what that tone means, can’t see beyond the blank expression on Sam’s face. Dean frowns, opens his mouth, and Sam stands, says, “I talked to Ogou and Ti-Jean this morning while you were still asleep and they both agreed to hold off for a while, so we should be okay through New Orleans. Look, I know you’re not exactly thrilled about this, which I can understand. I’ll wait for you to bring it up. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here. We should get moving as soon as we can. You want the shower first?” 

“No,” Dean says, confused. “But Sam, I.”

Before he can say anything else, Sam says, “Right. I’ll hurry,” and disappears into the bathroom. 

The door shuts and the lock clicks, and Dean has no idea what’s just happened. It seems as if Sam wants to talk about this as much as Dean does so he doesn’t argue, doesn’t pick the lock on the bathroom door, doesn’t say anything when Sam comes out with dark smudges under his eyes, the vévés on his arms slightly inflamed. 

Though he feels like he’s doing something wrong, Dean follows his brother’s lead and doesn’t say a word about anything related to vodou on the drive down to New Orleans. 

\--

They enter the city through Kenner and Metairie, keeping off of I-10 in favour of Airline Highway. Dean’s trying to scan everything around them at the same time he’s keeping an eye on traffic; he asks Sam where they’re heading and Sam gives him the first genuine smile that Dean’s seen all day.

“Downtown,” and Sam’s eyes are shattering into loa and reforming almost too fast for Dean to keep track of. “The French Quarter. If you take Rampart, we can park between Conti and St. Louis, then walk.”

Dean changes lanes, hangs a left, and asks, carefully, “Walk where, Sam?” 

Sam’s smile fades, just enough for Dean to feel like kicking himself at the same time that he’s wondering what the fuck he said to _make_ Sam retreat like that. “Down Conti to Dauphine,” Sam replies. “It’s where we’ll be staying while we’re here.” At Dean’s look, Sam sighs, stares out of the window and talks. “The people in Midnight’s _sosyete_, the ones that we need to talk to, won’t be downtown, but I have a place in the _vieux carré_. We’ll have friends and allies there, not to mention distractions if we need them.”

“Friends and allies that close to Bourbon Street?” Dean asks, trying to reconcile his impressions of the tourist area with something legitimately vodou. It’s difficult, especially after all of the time that Sam had spent in Louisiana just a couple months ago, not once stepping into New Orleans. “And a place, what does that mean? Like Savannah?”

“We’ve always kept it that way, for a number of reasons,” Sam says, answering the first thing Dean had said, still not looking at Dean, ignoring the second question. “Hang a left at Broad, would you? I’d like to go the couple extra blocks down Canal.” 

Dean does as directed, trying to reason out why, exactly, the vodouisantes would want to maintain ties with the tourists. He turns left on Broad, then right on Canal, and takes another left when they cross under the interstate and get to Rampart. Sam directs Dean to the parking lot he’d mentioned before, and though Dean doesn’t like the idea of leaving the Impala like this, the nod that Sam gives a guy watching from a window reassures him. 

Sam picks up the vévé-covered curse box and tucks it into the crook of one elbow, heading for the trunk and picking out a couple knives and his favourite gun. Dean frowns, does the same, and asks, “Expecting trouble?” The look that Sam gives him is full of amusement, and Dean feels like an idiot for asking. They’re here to deal with Papa Midnight’s leftovers, they have a box trapping what used to be a soul inside of it, and Sam’s the vodouisantes’ idea of a messiah -- if there _isn’t_ trouble, Dean will sell his car. 

\--

Dean follows Sam into the Quarter, taking in the sights and sounds. The area’s busy even at this time of day, heat clinging and sucking the life out best it can; Dean grins at a couple tourists, women already tipsy, he thinks, and wearing less in hopes it’ll help with the humidity. It won’t, nothing ever does, but Dean appreciates the scenery even as Sam’s quiet, back ramrod-straight as he walks down Conti.

Most of the buildings they’re passing are houses, expensive apartments this close to Bourbon Street, and Dean feels a shiver down his spine as he looks up, scans the balconies, the galleries, the windows. There’s no easily defensible position in the middle of these streets, something he’s always hated about New Orleans. 

Not many people are out, though, not on the balconies, not in ground-floor front rooms facing the street, and the ones that are seem to fall silent as Sam passes, watching with something that Dean thinks might be surprise, might be longing. Dean feels himself stepping closer to Sam, staring the people down with possessive glares, bared teeth. When they meet his eyes and smile, turn away, Dean doesn’t know _what_ to think. 

Sam stops in front of a house on Dauphine, looks up at the balcony, raps once on the door. Dean watches, one hand on his gun, feeling adrenaline flood his body as Sam stands there, still and silent. 

The door opens, a tall guy in jeans and nothing else, and he actually steps back when he sees Sam. “Chile, what you doing here?” Dean frowns; that voice doesn’t go with the guy -- it’s far too feminine -- and he looks like he used to play college ball and has kept in shape since. “And with him, no less? You asking for trouble? And just _what_ are you carrying? You ain’t thinking of bringing that _djab_ in my house, are you?” 

Dean raises an eyebrow as Sam smiles, ducks his head. “That you talking, or ‘Zulie Freda?” Sam asks, looking back up again, eyes swirling with loa. 

“You can’t tell?” the guy asks, scandalised. “Chile, tell me you joking, please.”

“Always,” Sam replies, and though his smile is still pasted on, there’s seriousness underneath. “I haven’t changed that much. Now, are you gonna let me and Dean in, or do I have to make you? The box is coming in with me and staying here. I don’t trust it with anyone else. ’Sides, this is _my_ house, isn’t it?” 

The guy looks between them, Dean thinks the guy won’t move, eyes flicking to the curse box under Sam’s arm, but then the guy shakes his head and steps to one side. “Chile, you know I’m just playing with you. Get your scrawny ass in here, you and that _houn-yo_ o’ yours. Time’s a wasting and the _chevaux_ you came down here to beat some sense into ain’t gonna wait ‘round all day.” 

Sam harrumphs and Dean smirks, until the guy stops smiling and looks at him, stares right into him the way only Sam can, anymore. “Ayah, you the one,” he murmurs, as Dean walks past. “You the one, boyo.”

\--

“So what is this place?” Dean asks, as Sam leads him up the steps, to a bedroom on the inside of the house, window overlooking a small courtyard. Sam drops his bag, Dean follows suit and takes the place in: open, airy, done up in yellows and oranges. It’s calming, in a strange sort of way, and smells like lemon and cinnamon. 

Sam places the box next to the bed, right on top of the nightstand, and inhales deeply, as if he’s just taken a weight off of his shoulder. Dean watches as his brother moves, bends down and traces his fingers over some line on the floor, just inside the doorway. “The public house of visiting dignitaries,” Sam says as he tastes his fingers against his tongue. “I stay here when I’m in New Orleans and I’ve opened it for the _konfians kays_ of various communities as well.”

Dean watches as Sam draws some symbol on the doorframe and stands up. “Home,” Dean says, half a guess. “You said it was yours, back in the car.”

“The _poto mitan_ always has a home in New Orleans,” Sam says, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge, rubbing his eyes. “This is where vodou has its home, therefore the head of the group has a home here. Before me, this is where councils were held. After I became the _poto mitan_, they signed the papers over to me but I never spent much time in this place. People came to San Francisco if they needed me and Savannah was always more of a refuge than anywhere else.”

“And the guy downstairs?” Dean asks. “Who’s he?” 

Sam falls backwards, hair flopping over his face. His eyes are closed; for the first time since they left Georgia, Sam looks relaxed, like he knows he’s somewhere safe. “He doesn’t have a name, so far as we know. He’s a _badjikan_ ridden by Erzulie Freda and he’s been so locked up with her for so long that he’s become something of a symbiote. They’re very rare.”

Dean can only imagine how people who don’t know about these things, how strangers, react to the guy at the door. “What’s a _badjikan_? And how long will it take before I can stop asking so many damned questions?” 

He’s watching Sam, sees the way the skin around Sam’s eyes and mouth tightens at the second question, sees the way his brother tenses. “A _badjikan_ is a keeper of the altars in any particular hounfor. While this house isn’t exactly a temple, we do have altars in the basement for anyone who wishes to serve the loa here, without leaving.”

An easy sidestepping of the second question Dean asked. He’s not inclined to push, and when he asks, “How long has he been like that?” Sam relaxes, as if he knows that Dean isn’t going to pursue the other chain of questions and whatever answers might come from there. 

“Longer than I’ve been the _poto mitan_,” Sam replies. “To ask would be rude.” He pauses, cracks open one eyelid, and looks at Dean. “Don’t ask, Dean. Please.” 

Dean scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and leaves it alone. He sits on the bed, reaches out and runs his hand down Sam’s side, perpendicular to the rigid bones of Sam’s ribs, hips. Sam tenses under his hand, this time for a far different reason; Dean can see his brother’s cock start to harden inside his jeans. 

“What’s the plan, then?” he asks, fingers dipping under Sam’s t-shirt, rubbing little circles on the patch of skin covered by one of Lakwa’s bones, a curving line coiling around the ends, put there for Legba. Dean wants to see his marks on Sam, imprints of teeth and fingers that say Sam’s owned by someone tangible, someone with their own physical presence. The lightning in his head surges at the thought; Dean swallows it down, meets Sam’s eyes. 

Sam looks at him as if he knows what Dean’s thinking, as well as sense the presence of the loa. “We’ll need to meet with some of the vodouisantes around here,” Sam replies, closing his eyes again, stretching out sinuously, cat-like, shirt riding up to give Dean more skin to play with. “Maybe for dinner and drinks. And then tomorrow we’ll get calls from others. Tomorrow night we’ll meet some of the _sosyete_ on neutral ground; they will’ve heard I’m in town by then.” 

“Nothing for a good three hours, then,” Dean guesses. His fingers trail under the waistband of Sam’s jeans and still. 

When he opens his eyes, Sam’s pupils are swirling maelstroms of loa. “Think that’s long enough?” Sam asks, smile crossing his lips. 

“One way to find out,” Dean replies, echoing the smile.

\--

Dean takes the first shower, calls older sibling privilege, and though this is Sam’s house and Sam’s the one covered in come, Sam doesn’t argue. Dean thinks it has more to do with the bed Sam’s curled in, the sleepy-eyed smile on Sam’s face, but with cool water pounding down his back, over his face, Dean just grins, shakes his head, uses Sam’s shampoo. 

When he gets out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a tank, too hot for anything else, Sam’s not in the bedroom. Dean frowns, explores the rest of the second floor in search of his brother. The hallway’s narrow, walls painted in a light yellow with swirling crimson loops that might be vévés; apart from the bedroom that still smells like sex, there are two more smaller rooms, plus a sitting room, French doors open to the balcony. 

Dean crosses his arms, leans against the doorway, watching Sam. His brother’s on the phone, has a cordless pressed between his ear and shoulder, and is looking out over the Quarter, jeans slung low on his hips, no shirt. The tattoos over his back and arms seem to writhe in the breeze. 

Sam turns, gives Dean a smile then rolls his eyes, presumably at the person on the other end of the phone. “Dean would prefer something less formal, as would I, Dennis.” He pauses, Dean can hear someone talk, and Sam finally says, “No, you can’t just switch from Antoine’s to Brennan’s and have done with it. We’ve been in the car for days now and I’m not wearing a tie for dinner. We’ll meet you and the others at Coop’s, at seven.” He hangs up, takes a deep breath, and shrugs at Dean. “Sorry, but Dennis called and she’s a little.” 

He waves one hand, and Dean tilts his head, asks, “Dennis? _She_ is a little?” and mimics Sam’s handwaving. 

“Denise, but no one calls her anything but Dennis,” Sam explains, stepping away from the window. “She gets pissed, otherwise.” 

“And she wanted to eat somewhere that requires ties?” Dean asks. He might be used to hustling anywhere, has circled in that level of society before, but not for a simple dinner, just because, and he can’t imagine someone welcoming him back like that. This is Sam, though, and if there’s one thing Dean’s learning, it’s that his brother is full of surprises. 

Sam walks over to Dean, leans into Dean, sniffs at the spot behind Dean’s ear and nibbles at Dean’s earlobe. “You used my shampoo,” he murmurs, fingers curling in the belt-loops of Dean’s jeans. “I like it.” 

“Well, I don’t,” Dean grouses. “It smells like shit.” 

The words might sound harsh, but his hands are on Sam’s cheeks, his lips pressing against Sam’s, now, tongue darting out to lick. Sam hums, presses closer, and an amused voice behind them says, “You got a call to return, _poto mitan_.” Sam groans, lets his forehead rest against Dean’s. “Not to mention a box you gotta do something with, and if you wanna get to Decatur before seven, y’all should be leaving soon. It’s gonna take you all o’ two hours to cross the Quarter.”

“Two hours?” Dean asks, incredulous, letting Sam go and turning to stare at the _badjikan_. He turns back to Sam, asks, “It’s only, what, ten, fifteen blocks?” 

Sam shrugs again. “I’m back,” he says, simple and plain. “It’s been a while.” 

Dean exhales, rubs his forehead. “Nothing is ever easy with you, is it.” 

The post-sex languor leaves Sam’s body at that, all of Sam’s muscles tensing. He brushes past Dean, muttering something about a shower and clean clothes, and Dean doesn’t have enough time to explain that he’s joking and that he’ll deal with _anything_ for Sam before he’s hearing the door across the hall close and the shower turn on. 

The _badjikan_ clucks his tongue, shakes his head. “You got a long way to go, boyo. _Poto mitan_’s always been a lil’ snippy ‘bout the way people here fuss over him, never liked it, and he’s always been a lil’ snippy ‘bout you.” 

“I can’t do anything right,” Dean says, collapsing into one of the armchairs, taking a moment to feel surprised at how comfortable it is, even with the plain wooden arms, back. “I have a dream, he ends up crying. I get fidgety talking, he tells me not to. I fuck his brains out then make a joke, and he clams up and leaves.” 

“Ever think mebbe he feels the same way you do?” the _badjikan_ asks. “He ain’t never wanted you in this life, boyo, now you shaping up to be just as important as him. He ain’t never wanted anyone to go to no trouble for him, but they is, all the damned time. He don’t like being in the spotlight but he grit his teeth and bears it, for all our sake. We try and make it better when we can but it ain’t like he can complain with you here now and it ain’t like you gonna like it any better than he does.” 

Dean thinks about that, about Sam’s myriad apologies, about Sam’s distance, and swears under his breath. Distance was never a good sign with Sam, meant he was hiding things and thinking too much, and Dean’s just let his brother hide, tamp down whatever’s worrying him, not prodding enough. That was always their father’s talent, pushing Sam to the point where Sam would blow up and let the entire world know what the problem was; Dean was always more concerned about keeping the peace and still is, if he’s honest with himself. 

“You got thinking o’ your own to do, boyo,” the _badjikan_ adds, pushing himself off from the doorframe, yawning and stretching. “But y’ain’t supposed to do it at the cost of the _poto mitan_. He ain’t never gonna tell you, so you listen to me: you one of us now. It don’t matter he your brother, don’t matter you sharing the same bed. He be your _poto mitan_ too, so you gotta treat him like it.” 

“What does that even _mean_?” Dean asks, frustrated, confused, worried. “And how the hell am I supposed to think about things when I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be thinking about?” 

The _badjikan_ frowns, lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Ask the _poto mitan_. He ain’t meant to have secrets from any of us, ‘specially the Petro, ‘specially Ogou’s favourite. He gonna need to learn soon as you what I just been saying.”

“_When_?” Dean exhales forcefully, stands up and goes to the doors, looks out over Dauphine. “Dinner tonight, meetings tomorrow. Sam’s got too much on his mind to worry about me.” 

“If I know the _poto mitan_,” the _badjikan_ says, “you the first thing on his mind. Watch him, t’night, and don’t get mad at Dennis. She always had a thing for your brother, always felt put out he stayed in ‘Frisco. You an unknown, boyo, and she’ll be pushing, see what she can get away with.” The _badjikan_ turns to leave, adds, over his shoulder, “Mark your territory, _cheval_, and let ‘er see the _poto mitan_’s marked his.” 

Dean, left alone in the sitting room, inhales the smell of lemons and the taste of wet air, feels the hair on his arms stand on end. Laughter echoes in the back of his head as lightning courses through his body. Mark your territory, the _badjikan_ had said, and make sure Sam marks his. Yeah. Dean thinks that sounds like a good idea. 

He leaves the sitting room, stalks to the bedroom, slams the door closed behind him and heads for the bathroom. Sam’s still in the shower and when Dean opens the bathroom door, he can smell the honey-musk scent of Sam’s favourite soap, wonders where it came from, if maybe there’s always a supply kept here under the sink for Sam, that and toothpaste. 

“Dean?” Sam asks, looking out from around the curtain, wet hair plastered to his skin, the most befuddled expression on his face. “Is something wrong? What’s happened?”

“I want her to see your marks on me,” Dean says. The words are his, he’s the one saying them, he feels the truth of them, but there’s someone else in his voice, too. “And mine on you. I want her to know who you belong to.” 

Sam’s eyes narrow and he pushes one strand of hair off of his face. “Dean. What the fuck?” 

Dean’s eyes narrow in response, narrow dangerously. War drums start pounding out a rhythm in his ears, following the beating of his heart, loud and insistent. “You belong to me, Sam.” It’s not a growl, not quite, but it’s close. Sam’s not going to argue with him, not on this; it’s _fact_.

Sam steps back from the water spray, leans against the back wall of the shower. “Of course I do,” he says, and though he sounds mild, Dean can hear something else in his brother’s voice. “What kind of marks? Teeth and nails, something more permanent? You sure you wanna deal with everything else that’ll come up if you meet the _konfians kay_ of the New Orleans Rada vodouisantes like that, not to mention the others who’ll be there?” 

“I want them to know.” Dean would be furious if he couldn’t see the way Sam’s getting hard, talking about this, couldn’t see the flush staining Sam’s skin that has nothing to do with the heat of the shower. He thinks Sam’s trying to warn him about something, but Dean doesn’t care, just wants _Sam_. “I want them to know you’ve chosen _me_.” 

Sam holds Dean’s gaze, then says, “I’m going to rinse out my hair. When I’m done, I’ll get dressed. If you want to do this, we’ll do it then.” Sam’s speaking calmly, clearly; knowing what Sam’s going to do gives Dean the ability to control himself, to leave Sam alone in the shower to finish getting clean. 

Standing at the bedroom window, looking out over the courtyard below, Dean realises that Sam knows how to handle the Petro, especially Ogou. That makes Dean angry again but also relieved; as much as he hates that he has to be handled, he won’t have to worry about Sam not being able to deal with him. 

The shower turns off a few minutes later and Dean hears the curtain being pulled back, hears Sam using the towel to dry off. The door opens, then, and Sam emerges in a billow of steam, the same jeans from before clinging to his hips, skin above still damp. Dean can’t take his eyes off of his brother, drinks down the sight of Sam. 

Sam takes one step closer, says, “I’ll be wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to my elbows, so that the tattoos on my arms will show. The best place to mark would be my neck. Is that what you want?” 

Dean says, “Yes,” even as he wants to ask why Sam’s taking this so calmly. 

“Sit down,” Sam says, not an order but not a request either, and once Dean does, locked in this strangely surreal time and place, Sam drops to his knees in front of Dean. Sam kneels, grace and something else in his frame, maybe fury, some kind of passion, and tilts his head to one side, baring his neck. 

Put like that, cold and close to business-like, the idea’s lost some of its appeal. Sam’s eyes, lowered, look up at him, burning, loa shattering and reforming too fast to follow. “Changed your mind?” Sam asks, and Dean expects bitter taunting, almost shies back at the hurt, the defeat. 

“No,” Dean says. “No, but I.” He stops, lost for words, lets his thumb trace over Sam’s lower lip. The drums are gone. “Sam, I want it to mean something. You and me, together, right? I want them to know _that_.” 

“They will,” Sam replies, shuffling forward enough to pull Dean’s head down, kiss him. “They’ll all know.” 

Dean’s hands curl in Sam’s hair, still damp, then trail down to Sam’s shoulders. One tilts Sam’s chin, and Dean leans down, inhales the smell of Sam’s neck. He licks the skin, then bites, sucks. Sam makes a muffled sound, bitten-back inhale, and his fingers tighten on Dean’s legs. Dean pulls back, sees blood on the surface and bruising beneath; he moves Sam’s head and repeats the process on the other side. 

When he’s satisfied, he sits up, says, “Now me.” 

Sam grins, reaches up and trails his fingertips over the bitemarks and scabs from their night in St. Louis. Dean jumps, had forgotten about those, and hisses as Sam pulls the scabs off, digs his fingers into the bruises. “Mine,” Sam says, then, in a voice full of amusement and longing, “Ours.” 

“Danny,” Dean breathes, the lightning in his blood doubling as it bounces through him. “Danny, what the hell’s going on?” 

“My Ogou ain’t pushing the block,” she whispers, cupping Dean’s cheek in her hand, searching his eyes with her own. “You calling out to him, _chwal_. Petro, ayah? When he come, don’t you be saying no.”

Dean frowns, wants to ask a million more questions, but Sam’s eyes clear and that reminds him of something else. “Wait,” Dean says. “Wait. Hold on. Why the hell do I know when you’re being ridden, but no one else seems to? Feeling the Petro stuff, that’s because I’m Petro-sensitive, sure, but I know when you’re you or when you’re someone else. I don’t think that’s normal, is it?” 

“It’s because you know me,” Sam says, standing up, offering a hand to Dean. “No one else knows me as well as you do, it’s no surprise you can tell when it’s me and when it isn’t.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, taking Sam’s hand and using his brother as leverage to stand. “You and me.”

Sam grins, ruffles Dean’s hair, but there’s something lurking in the shadows of Sam’s gaze. Dean knows he hasn’t gotten a real answer, decides not to push the issue. As Dean’s batting Sam’s hands away, trying to fix his hair, Sam says, “Get dressed, you lout. We should be going soon.” Sam goes for the door; Dean watches as the change in light makes the new bruises on Sam’s neck change colour, deepen and shift. 

Sam pauses, turns back to look at Dean. “Dinner tonight and the _sosyete_ tomorrow night, on neutral ground. People’ll be calling, stopping by, but the _badjikan_ makes a good secretary. We’ll talk in the morning, Dean. Any questions you have.” 

Dean feels some of the weight fall from his shoulders, and he inclines his head. “Guess I’m not the only one that got a lecture?” At Sam’s raised eyebrow, Dean says, “The _badjikan_, when you got in the shower.” 

“No,” Sam finally says, and his voice is shadowed. “No, you weren’t. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.” 

Sam’s gone before Dean can ask who it was and what they said.

\--

The _badjikan_ slams the door behind them and Sam mutters something under his breath in French or Creole, something that Dean can’t literally understand even though he catches the sentiments behind the words. 

“Guy can be an ass,” he says, mild, and watches Sam for a reaction. 

Sam looks at him, corner of his eyes first, then full-on, and takes a moment to study Dean before he lets the smile loose, snickers. “Not just him, Dean. Him and ‘Zulie, together, what they are? It’s a mother and a father and an older sister and an older brother and a mouthy servant and an advisor, all mixed into one. It _sucks_.” 

Something in Dean rears up at the thought of anyone else serving as Sam’s older brother; _Dean_ is the only brother Sam’s ever had and ever needed, and everyone else jockeying for the job can fuck off, as far as he’s concerned. Still, he manages to maintain control, just gives voice to a thoughtful hum, and doesn’t know whether to be relieved or angry when Sam looks at him and lets him get away with it. 

They start down Dauphine, toward St. Louis, and haven’t gotten past two doorways before someone’s opening the third door, peering out, grinning widely at the two of them. 

“Heard you was coming back,” the woman says, hair kinked in every direction and wearing an oversized, flowing shirt. “Ain’t believin’ it, but here you is. Should we be ‘specting trouble?” 

Sam goes over to her, gives her a hug, pulls lightly at one strand of hair as it spirals out away from her. Dean folds his arms, watching, and even though he expects her to focus all of her attention on Sam, she’s looking at Dean as well, like she thinks Dean might have answers, too. 

“Not trouble in the Quarter,” Sam says, stepping back, standing close enough to Dean that Dean can feel the heat radiating off of Sam. “We’ll keep it as small as we can or we’ll give everyone enough warning to tighten up.” 

The grin slides from her face, and she looks between the two of them. “It gonna slide out?” 

Dean isn’t sure what that means, but Sam must. “Not if we can help it,” he says, before adding, “better spread the word, though. Just in case.” 

She nods, looks serious, and when the door a few houses down opens, she yells out, “You get your body back inside, Juline, and start calling people near the third!” The door slams, the woman nods once, and says, “You keep safe, Sam, and keep that man o’ yours close,” before winking at Dean and closing her own door. 

“I take it this is what the _badjikan_ meant,” Dean says, half-question, now that he understands. Ten, fifteen blocks, all those houses and businesses: if one person out of every three wants to talk to Sam, it doesn’t matter how long the conversations last, it’s going to take at least an hour before they make it to Decatur. 

Sam sighs, shrugs. “That was Marianne, by the way. She’s a sweetheart, and makes some of the best catfish in the city.” 

He turns back towards St. Louis, starts moving, and Dean can only say, “I never knew you liked catfish,” before hurrying to keep up.


	4. Chapter 4

It goes like that for the next hour. Once they get to St. Louis, Sam turns right and heads for the river; every worker of every business they pass on the intersection of Bourbon leans out of windows and doors to say hello. They get daiquiris pressed into their hands, beads and boas thrown around their necks, and the noise brings out others who block off the street with shouts and music. Even though it looks like Sam’s enjoying it, accepting the welcoming and teasing everyone right back, Dean can tell his brother’s tense, playing a part he never asked for with as much enthusiasm and grace as possible. 

There’s only one moment he relaxes his grip on his plastic cup, only one time when he pushes the feathers of the boa away from his face with something other than irritation. Dean’s stomach flip-flops as a woman who reminds him of Sophie saunters up, hips swinging, tits bouncing, and kisses Sam on each cheek. 

“Welcome back, Sam,” she purrs, sultry-sweet, not a glance spared for Dean. “We missed you.” 

Sam’s laugh is the freest it’s been outside of the house. “I’m beginning to get that impression,” he replies, and though he’s being polite, there are hints and edges of a southern drawl in his accent, nothing like Dean’s heard since Savannah, since it was just them and a waitress, piles of food on the table. “Y’all miss me that much? I don’t bring anything but trouble.” 

She laughs, takes a sip right out of Sam’s drink, and says, “Honey, you might bring trouble, but you’re _our_ trouble. Ain’t nothing we like better than having our trouble back with us.” She reaches up, then, pushes a strand of Sam’s hair behind his ear, and Dean can’t stop the growl from spilling up his throat. She looks at him then, looks at him with eyes full of amusement. 

“Dean, this is Rose,” Sam says. 

It looks like Sam’s about to say more but Rose cuts Sam off, disentangles herself from him and moves to stand in front of Dean, look Dean up and down. “Rosette, actually,” she says, licking her lips before finally meeting his eyes. “And aren’t you a pretty lil’ thing.” 

Dean bares his teeth in a smile, says, “Gee, thanks,” and then, “Stay away from him.” Sam says something and Dean doesn’t even turn to look at his brother before snarling. “Sam, shut the fuck up.” Rose raises an eyebrow, looks like she’s fighting back a smile, and Dean leans down, gets right in her face. “Listen, I don’t care who you are or what you are, but you stay the fuck away from him. He’s _mine_.”

A few in the crowd close enough to follow start cat-calling, whistling, but Dean ignores them, his attention on Rose. She holds his gaze, finally grins and says, “A pretty lil’ thing with a good head on his shoulders.” Dean blinks, and Rose looks at Sam, adds, “I think I approve, Sam.” 

Dean straightens up, but Rose throws an arm around his neck, pulls him down and plants one right on his lips, swiping her tongue across his skin just before she leans back enough to whisper, “You keep acting like that, I think maybe you’ll fit right in.” 

Dean frowns but Rose pushes him away, playful but gentle, her hand in the middle of his chest. “Y’all get moving, now, y’hear? You’ll be running late wherever you’re on your way to.” 

Sam rolls his eyes but agrees and Dean sees the instant Sam looks around, catches sight of the audience as if he’s forgotten that they’re all there. The tension in his shoulders comes back, fingers turning white against the red plastic cup, and Dean sees Rose’s smile fade for a second, expression turning worried. She catches Dean’s eye and Dean’s head aches, right along the block Ti-Jean put in, like lightning crackling at the edges. 

“Ogou?” he whispers, but Rose brings the smile back, pushes Dean and Sam both down St. Louis, starts hustling the crowd back to work. 

Sam leans against the wall of a building before they get anywhere near to Royal Street, pulls at the beads and boa, takes them off and gives them to a pair of half-drunk tourists staggering towards the noise of Bourbon. He takes a swig of the daiquiri, wrinkles his nose and sets the cup down on a window-ledge. 

“Who was that?” Dean asks, playing with the edge of a couple beads. Sam’s not looking at him and Dean’s still off-balance enough to appreciate whatever emo-fest his brother’s got going on at the moment. 

“She’s not a vodouisante, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sam answers, nodding at a couple of people who walk out of a restaurant and stop, stare at him for a moment. “Rose is just a friend. A good friend who knows enough about things to give some advice every once in a while.” 

Dean gives Sam a half-smile, not that Sam’s watching, and guesses, “And to get drunk with, too?”

A deep sigh is apparently all Sam needs to get out of his system before he has his game face pasted back on, shoulders set and determined. “To get drunk with, to relax with, to complain to, to escape from everything else around here. We should get going; we’ve still got half the Quarter to get through.” 

Dean shrugs, fingers his boa, and asks, “Does this bring out the colour of my eyes?” Sam gives him a look, eyebrow raised and everything, and Dean says, “Well, fuck. Guess we’ll just have to pick out a better one later.” 

The boa and beads get pushed into the hands of a couple leaving Antoine’s and the Winchesters head down St. Louis as far as Chartres before turning and heading toward Ursulines. 

\--

The two get bogged down right before Jackson Square, then again by Orleans, and Dean has to laugh when three of Sam’s vodouisantes have to pull a couple drunken frat brothers off of him and Sam near St. Ann. Sam isn’t amused, that much is clear to see, and it seems like every step toward their dinner with Dennis and whoever she’s bringing with her makes Sam that much more tense. 

Dean pulls his brother to one side of the street when they cross St. Phillip into the upper Sixth. Sam asks Dean what’s going on, eyes darting every which way, tracking people or places or loa, Dean’s not sure and doesn’t care. He leans forward, presses his lips to Sam’s, runs his fingers over the bitemarks on Sam’s neck, and only gives Sam breathing space when he feels his brother start to unwind against him, start to kiss him back. 

“You need to chill,” Dean says. 

Sam starts to argue, starts to say something so stupid that Dean doesn’t even listen. He kisses Sam again, furious and full of heat; he pulls away and this time Sam’s eyes are closed, mouth open and gasping for air. 

“You need to relax, Sam,” Dean says, and this time Sam just opens his eyes, waits. “Whoever this chick is, whatever this meeting is _really_ about, you don’t need to get this worked up about it. I’m here. Your damned loa are here. Half the fucking Quarter would do anything you wanted as soon as you asked for it. It’s taken us almost an hour and a half to walk _eight_ blocks and you cut off the loa from an entire group in Chicago.” He takes a deep breath, says, for the first time really believing it, “You’re the _poto mitan_.” Sam blinks. “It’s time you realised you can use that.” 

Sam’s staring at him now, and Dean waits, watching as the loa circle in Sam’s eyes, waiting for his brother’s freaky mind to put two and two together and end up with some answer Dean never saw coming. Instead of that, though, Sam whispers, “What did the _badjikan_ say to you?” and his eyes are wide with horror. He actually moves away from Dean, _away_, and all Dean can think to say is his brother’s name. Sam shakes his head, in denial or disagreement, Dean’s not sure, and asks again, “What did he say to you?” 

Dean steps toward Sam, and Sam puts his hand out, presses lightly on Dean’s chest, holding his brother there. “He didn’t say anything I shouldn’t have already known. Sam, dude, come on. What’re you thinking?” Sam’s fingers curl in Dean’s shirt, pressing in, digging, but Sam doesn’t say anything. 

He eventually lets go, only to lift the same hand and rip the scabs off of one side of Dean’s neck. Dean bats Sam’s hand away, hissing in shock more than pain, his own hand covering the part of him now throbbing in pain. “Dude, what the fuck was that for?” 

Strangely enough, that seems to snap Sam out of whatever weird mood he’s in, and he grins, even though his eyes still look troubled. “We’ll be late,” is all Sam says, and Dean figures he should just let it go for now, bring it up in the morning with the other eight million questions he has. 

\--

There’s a woman outside of Coop’s, arms crossed, leaning against the wall and tapping one stiletto heel on the sidewalk. Dean doesn’t like her, just seeing the way she’s so obviously positioned in the centre of a group, watching and waiting. 

“Sam,” she says, once they get closer, and holds out both of her hands. Sam takes them, and she says, quieter, “_Poto mitan_,” and kisses his knuckles, lingering over Sam’s hands. Dean can see tongue at one point and hates it. 

He coughs, can see Sam trying not to smile as she lets go of Sam’s hands and accepts a kiss on the forehead. The smell of coffee and powdered sugar floats down from Café du Monde, just as tangible as the feel of lightning and peppered rum running through Dean’s veins. 

“Dennis, it’s good to see you’re well,” Sam says, polite as always. He greets the others, then gestures for Dean to step forward, says, “This is Dean. He’ll be joining us tonight.” 

Dennis tosses her hair over her shoulder, raises one sculpted eyebrow. “This is for us, Sam. _Poto mitan_ and Rada horses, the way it’s always been. Who’s he to sit in on the first meeting we’ll’ve had in months?” 

Dean’s dislike turns into active loathing as Sam says, “It doesn’t matter who he is, Dennis. I am the _poto mitan_ and I want him here. You might be the head of the New Orleans Rada, but you still answer to me.” 

That’s not enough of an explanation but Dean thinks Sam’s waiting for him to introduce himself, however he wants. Dean steps forward, side pressed against Sam’s, no space between them, and tilts his head, baring his mark for better light. He can see the instant Dennis notices it, because she flinches. He weighs, for one instant, what he’s about to say, what it’s going to mean, but decides to go with his gut. “Like Sam said, I’m Dean. I’m Ogou’s chosen favourite, Sam’s my _barriè_, and Sam’s, well. Sam’s mine, actually.” 

Dennis turns to Sam, as if she’s expecting Sam to deny everything, but Sam just ducks his head and smiles, looks at Dean for an instant before returning his attention to Dennis. “We’re hungry, Dennis. Let’s eat, okay?” 

\--

Dinner is a stilted affair, for all that Coop’s is a pretty awesome place in Dean’s eyes. The food’s good, plain and simple but all the better for it, spiced enough to satisfy some craving deep inside Dean’s belly but hearty enough to fill a much more physical hunger. The people are a good mix of working classes and performers, young and old, black and white and everything between. Sam and Dennis talk in shaded layers while the others watch and listen, Dean included, and by the time they leave, all Dean’s really sure of is that Dennis is a bitch and should never have been allowed to become so important to the vodouisantes here in New Orleans. 

The Rada head towards a Route 45 streetcar and Sam walks away from Coop’s, delving into the Quarter. Dean spares one venomous glance towards Dennis’ back and then follows his brother. 

Sam moves in the direction of his house, but it’s not until Sam’s striding down Bourbon like he has an itch to scratch that Dean guesses where their destination might be. When they end up in front of a Mango Mango daiquiri bar, Dean only has to look inside to know that this is where Rose works. 

She looks over, holding up one finger to the two out-of-towners leaning against the bar, debating what kind of daiquiris to order, and mouths, ‘_What’s going on?_ Sam walks inside, sits at the counter and puts his elbows up, rests his forehead in his palms. Dean follows, crowds up against Sam, puts his arms over Sam’s shoulders and rests his palms against Sam’s chest, covering Sam’s back and leaving his own unprotected. Ogou hums in approval, close and yet somehow not, somehow outside of Dean, but they both feel Danny shift inside of Sam, almost as if she wants to come out. 

“I need to send y’all home with some rum?” Rose asks, leaning on the counter across from Sam, looking at Dean. She’s keeping her hands to herself, which Dean appreciates, but giving them both a view down her cleavage, which they could both do without. Sam doesn’t say anything; Rose’s eyes narrow and she asks Dean, “The fuck happened, Dean? Who were y’all heading to meet?” 

“Dennis,” Sam mutters, the words muffled by his hands. “We met up with Dennis.” 

Dean isn’t expecting the look Rose gives him, scathing and fierce, just as he’s not expecting the vicious swearing. She only pauses long enough in her tirade to grab a bottle of rum, fill up three plastic cups halfway, slide two over to Sam and Dean. “Any time you want me to round up some people to go over there and kick that bitch’s fat ass, I will,” Rose promises, tone low. “You went to go meet with that fucking cunt and only took _him_ for back up? Shit, Sam, he ain’t got a clue ‘bout her.” 

“He didn’t need to have one,” Sam growls back, finally lifting his face. “He was fine. He was all I needed. He’s all I’ll _ever_ need and word better start getting ‘round about that, Rose.” 

“Sam, you’re just as stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid.” Dean thinks about arguing, but he figures Rose has a point, not to mention he’s trying not to smile at Sam’s declaration. “You could’ve taken someone else as back-up, could’ve had them at your meeting or waiting outside. You’re the damn voodoo messiah, you might as well fucking act like it, sometimes.” 

Someone behind them sounds ridiculously unimpressed as she says, “Couldn’t have fucking said it better my-fucking-self.” 

Dean groans, closes his eyes and drops his forehead. 

“About time you got here, princess,” Rose says, and Dean steels himself. He sees a bigger smile on Rose’s face than he would’ve thought possible, but understands when Kate steps up to the bar, next to Sam, leans forward and lays one of most messy open-mouthed kisses on Rose that Dean’s ever seen. The tourists are watching with wide eyes, a few tourists or residents passing behind them whistle, cat-call, and Sam’s tense underneath Dean’s touch. 

“Traffic in Kenner’s a shit storm this time of day,” Kate replies, dry as always. “Pour me a drink, bitch,” and sticks her tongue out when Rose insults her back. Kate settles on the stool, slams down the shots Rose hands her in chilled test tubes, and then elbows Sam hard enough that Dean, still attached, sways, caught off-balance. “The fuck you doing, running off and leaving me ‘n Dean in bumfuck Mississippi? You don’t even call? What the fuck am I, chopped fucking liver?” She chugs down the last few swallows of Sam’s rum, then goes on to say, “Anyway, I’m here now, so just point me in the direction of this bitch and I’ll go introduce my boots to her fucking face.” 

Rose snorts, says, “And that’s why I love you.” 

Dean knows he’s in trouble when Kate grins, checks her nails, and drawls, “Here I thought it was my stunning wit and that thing I do with my tongue.” Dean groans, closes his eyes again, and doesn’t protest when Kate pats him on the arm and offers him a drink. 

\--

He’s not sure how they make it back to the house, isn’t sure of much once Kate pries him off of Sam and puts him onto a stool, definitely doesn’t remember much after Rose starts pushing bottles at the two of them. What he does remember, what he’s sure of, is that Sam had said, more than once, that all he needed there with him was Dean, that all he’ll ever need is Dean, and everyone else, loa included, can just fuck off. Dean thinks that Kate was sympathetic, that Rose was laughing at them, and that Sam smelt like honey and rum, pepper and coffee, and tasted like salt under his tongue. 

Dean smiles at the memory, then winces as he opens his eyes, staring into bright sunlight. He’s back in the bedroom, back in a bed that smells like fresh linens even as it still smells like Sam. He shifts, lifts his head enough to look down and see that Sam’s asleep, one arm thrown haphazardly over Dean, legs twined in together with Dean’s, hair curled and spreading every which way, soft on Dean’s neck. 

His head aches and he has to piss, but Dean doesn’t care, not sleeping like this with Sam, quiet, calm. He forgets, sometimes, how much younger, how much more peaceful, Sam seems when he’s asleep. 

Dean drowses for a while, in and out of sleep, the sheet bunched around his waist enough in the warm, humid air. He eventually hears voices in the hallway, outside of the closed door, and it pushes open enough for Kate to stick her head around and see that they’re both still in bed. Dean tries to signal with his eyes that Sam’s asleep and not to wake him, but Sam mutters, “’M awake. Honest.”

Kate snickers and Rose must be standing on her tip-toes to see over Kate’s shoulder. Dean smacks Sam’s head lightly, grouses, “Should’ve kept your mouth shut, idiot. Then we’d be able to sleep, or try and sneak out without these two knowing.” 

“Want breakfast,” Sam says, opening one eye with a squint then closing it with a groan. “’N maybe a shower. Gotta piss.”

“And that’s why you’re the only one fucking crazy enough to put up with him,” Kate says to Dean, rolling her eyes. “We’re going out for food. If you’re lucky as fucking hell, we might even bring some back for you.” 

The two girls leave, Sam shifts and looks up at Dean, humour and wariness mixing with the loa in his eyes. 

“Rock-paper-scissors you for the toilet,” Dean says, brushing Sam’s hair off of his face, out from near his eyes. He glides his fingers over the scabs on Sam’s neck, feels his brother shiver under his touch. 

Sam blinks crust out of his eyes, grins sleepily. “You always pick scissors. And you piss in the sink, anyway.” He yawns, and Dean leans down, kisses Sam once he’s done, grimaces at the sour smell of rum on Sam’s morning breath. “Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “I know.” Sam shifts, sits up, and Dean knows he’s pouting but doesn’t care. “We’ll get cleaned up, see what the _badjikan_ has in the kitchen, have that talk. The girls should be gone for at least an hour.” 

“How’d that happen, anyway?” Dean asks, admiring the view when Sam stands up, content for now not to wonder how they both ended up naked. Sam goes into the bathroom and Dean speaks louder. “I mean, Kate’s hands-off when it comes to vodou and Rose knows enough to say you’re the voodoo messiah, not to mention Rose is definitely a New Orleans native and Kate’s one of the demon’s kids from freaking Pittsburgh.”

The toilet flushes, the taps in the sink run, and Sam’s wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms when he emerges, hair around his forehead and ears wet from where he’s splashed water on his face. “They met at Tulane,” Sam explains, leaning against the door. “Kate quit after Marinette but Rose kept in touch. Last time I was here, Rose said something about going after Kate, but Kate didn’t say anything when we saw her a couple months ago. I didn’t know they actually hooked up. That must be pretty new.” 

Dean nods, thoughtful, and then studies the line of his brother’s body, straight and tense from neck to shoulder to hip. “If Kate’s empathy was because of the demon, how have you been able to block it?” 

Sam gestures at the tattoos covering his chest. “Black magic loa, mostly, them and the guédé. The same way they turned my gift into something only the loa could use, they turned Kate’s empathy into a certain affinity focused on feeling the loa or their horses. And before you ask, I don’t know if I could do that with any more of the demon’s chosen. Kate was being ridden, that’s the only way I had an in with her.”

It doesn’t matter, anyway; the demon’s dead, there’s a new one on the way without human children to call on, and Dean’s stomach is growling. Sam grins at the noise, says, “I’ll meet you downstairs in the kitchen, yeah?” and actually waits for Dean’s answer this time. 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Dean promises, watching as Sam leaves. 

He hears Sam move down the hallway, thump down the stairs, not awake enough to measure his steps and move quietly. Dean sits up, swings his legs off of the mattress, and feels his feet hit the floor before his vision goes black. 

\--

There’s a machete in his hand, again, and he’s back in the same barren wasteland, but this time Ogou’s right in front of him. It’s only the two of them, so when Ogou inclines his head, says, “Walk wit’ me, _cheval_,” Dean nods back, slow and tentative. 

Ogou slides next to him, the sound of drums starting up somewhere in the distance. “You done good last night, with the _femèl chen_. She politicked her way in to that position before my _trezò_ came along; I want her out but he ain’t gonna listen to me.” 

“You think he’ll listen to me, though,” Dean guesses. He can’t really blame the loa, not when he’d like just as much to never see Dennis again. “Why don’t you like her?” 

“Not all the Rada feel what we done to my wife’s sister was the right thing,” Ogou finally says. 

Dean’s blood runs cold. The Petro loa bound and banished Marinette, but if he’s reading underneath Ogou’s words the right way, some of the Rada loa might be trying to free her. Dean doesn’t know how that’s possible when Sam’s the one the loa used to bind her but Ogou doesn’t have a reason to lie to him. 

“You listen, _cheval_,” Ogou says, stopping, facing Dean straight on. “You here for two reasons: to get the pieces of Midnight’s _konesan_ back where they supposed to be and to keep my wife’s _cheval_ from doing something stupid with Marinette. You been listening to me so I’ll leave the block alone and let you work it out with the _poto mitan_ before I knock it down. But, so help me Bondye, the instant you lose sight o’ either o’ those is the second I come with a bridle, _konprann_?” 

Dean swallows back the questions, swallows back the insane desire to just ask Ogou to get rid of the block and ride him now, so he’ll know everything, be better able to watch out for Sam, and nods. “I understand.” 

Ogou lifts Dean’s empty hand, twines his fingers in with Dean’s, leans forward. “No one else’ll know ‘bout this talk ‘less you tell ‘em. _Poto mitan_ smell you on me, but that won’t make him do nothing but get all _reveye_.” Dean doesn’t understand the word, not exactly, but when Ogou kisses his forehead, then leans back, makes a crude gesture, Dean gets it and can’t help laughing. 

\--

Dean’s standing. He blinks back the smell of fire, and looks down at the bed. Must’ve taken a second, then, as long as it took him to stand up, mind not needed and body acting on memory and instinct. He chews on his lower lip for a moment, thinking about that, but eventually goes to the bathroom, takes care of business, and steps into a pair of pyjama pants and slips on a thin t-shirt before he leaves the room in search of Sam and food. 

\--

Sam’s crouched down, looking at something on the bottom-most shelf of the refrigerator. “Marianne and Juline sent over food, looks like,” he says without turning. “Must’ve been last night while we were out.” Sam pauses, turns around and stares at Dean. 

Dean grins, sees his brother’s nostrils flare. “And what did they bring over, then?” 

Sam keeps staring; there’s at least one loa moving behind his eyes, and what she and Sam are talking about, Dean thinks he can guess. He almost expects Sam to say something, but Sam just turns back to the fridge, says, “Things for pain perdu, creamed egg chartres, there’re beignets on the counter, some fresh bread. Roasted potatoes, too, and a pitcher of milk punch.” Sam stands up, balancing some Tupperware and a baking dish in his hands, and tilts his head at Dean. “Come on, then grab the pitcher.” 

Dean does as directed, pulls down glasses from the cabinet Sam nods his head at, and watches as Sam heats up a cast-iron pan, turns the oven on. The roasted potatoes get put into the pan, a Ziploc full of bread gets spread out on cookie sheets and shoved in the oven, and Sam grins at Dean, reaching around him for a sip of milk punch. 

“Didn’t think you could cook,” Dean says, mildly, watching as Sam’s hand reaches into a different cabinet and emerges holding a jar of maraschino cherries in syrup. 

“I can’t,” Sam says, doing something that looks like cooking to Dean. “First time I came to New Orleans, Marianne sat me down and told me what to do with everything she’d be bringing over. Told me it was a tragedy someone like me couldn’t feed themselves.” Sam looks over his shoulder, adds, “I wasn’t about to argue.” 

The baking dish settles to room temperature and Sam shoves it in the oven; within minutes, the smell of eggs and onions fills the small room. They’re both on their second glass of milk punch; Dean thinks that’s the only reason his heart doesn’t start beating faster when Sam glances at him and says, “The eggs chartres will have to bake for a while. We should load up the perdu and start talking.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, taking two plates out of the drying rack, handing them over to Sam with a cocky smile on his face. “Perdu. Pain is bread, I know that much.” 

Sam’s glance, quick, cutting, holds an emotion Dean can’t place. Sam loads warm bread on the plates, covers them with cherries and syrup, adds generous spoonfuls of powdered sugar. “Lost,” he says. “Perdue is the French verb for lost. Grab the beignets and the pitcher, would you?” 

\--

They end up in a small dining room, more an alcove than anything else, overlooking a courtyard filled with trees and small statues tucked in and among the foliage. The window’s open and the breeze smells like last night’s party, brought over from Bourbon. Dean digs into the food; Sam sips at his drink and eats the cherries before the bread. 

“So, where to start,” Sam says, eventually, leaning back and leaving most of the bread untouched. He’s watching Dean, has that careful look in his eyes that means he’s withdrawing, closing himself off. 

Dean’s mouth opens and he’s just about to ask Sam to tell him the whole story of Marinette, but not with that look in Sam’s eyes. “Why don’t you start by telling me why Dennis is who she is, and why you aren’t doing anything to rein her in.” 

It’s not the most pressing question, but Sam relaxes, hearing it, and Dean congratulates himself on his restraint. “Dennis comes from a long line of Rada horses; her parents were both horses, her mother’s mother, and back down to Saint-Domingue. She was the head of the New Orleans Rada before I became _poto mitan_ and was one of the first people I met when I came here.” 

“So she’s in by default?” Dean asks. He takes another bite of the bread, goes on to ask, “Can’t you kick her out? I mean, you _are_ the top guy; just vote her off the island and put someone else in her place.” 

“I’d need a reason.” Sam looks disturbed by the thought, but Dean’s not sure if it’s at the thought or more that Dean’s trying to get Sam to trade on his status. It could be something else entirely, too; Dean’s got a bad feeling about Dennis, about her role in everything going on. “I can’t just demote her without a reason.” 

Dean snorts, points his fork at Sam. “So find one. Doesn’t seem that difficult. Rose hates her and Rose isn’t even one of us.” Sam blinks, and Dean isn’t sure why until he plays back his last comment: ‘isn’t one of us,’ he’d said. “Sam,” he says, but now Sam’s looking at him with the same horror he’d looked at Dean with last night. Last night, when Dean had called Sam, with full and complete belief, the _poto mitan_.

“I never wanted you to get involved,” Sam whispers. 

“Sam, it’s what I told Dad,” Dean says, cutting his brother off, leaning across the counter. “This is my choice. You didn’t get me involved, _I_ got me involved. And sure, I’ll admit I’m still a little freaked out by the thought of sharing my head with one of the loa, but I’ll get there. I _am_ getting there. You’re the _poto mitan_, I’m Petro-sensitive and I already know which loa’s waiting for me on the other end of this whole initiation thing. I’m dealing with it. Are you?” 

Sam’s staring, mouth open, but the horror’s fading slowly, into something nearer to acceptance. Dean knows it’ll take a while but Sam will get there. Actually, Sam might get there before Dean does. 

“I can’t get rid of Dennis until we meet with Midnight’s _sosyete_ and get the boxes back,” Sam says, giving up on his breakfast entirely. Dean steals the plate, starts eating, pleased that Sam’s at least considering it. “What else?” 

Dean chews, swallows, wipes his mouth off on the back of his arm. “Tell me what I’m supposed to be doing, Sam. I’m a beginner, I know that, but I need to know what I should be doing.” He pauses, considers the bread still on his plate, stained red with cherry syrup, and looks up at his brother, says, carefully, “If it would be easier for someone else to be my _barriè_, dude, just tell me. Tony aready offered to do it, and he seems like a pretty stand-up guy.” 

“Do you want him to be your _barriè_?” Sam asks. Dean knows exactly what to do with that question, can’t help the snort and the look he gives his brother. Sam looks mollified. “I know I haven’t been the most,” Sam says, pausing, searching for a word, gives up. “Maybe it would be better.”

“Dude,” Dean says, cutting Sam off. “No one else’ll give me what I need, okay? I’m fine here and you’re doing well enough.” He leans back, sets his fork down, adds, “Just, y’know. _Talk_ to me about shit. I’m not running and I’m not scared.” At Sam’s raised eyebrow, Dean feigns insult, says, “Hey, now. I’m _not_. Why don’t you tell me what we’re doing down here? I mean, boxes, some group of crazy disciples, whatever, but there’s stuff going on behind the scenes, isn’t there?” 

The oven timer in the kitchen beeps; Sam goes to shut it off and comes back carrying a dish with steam coming off the surface, two more plates balanced under one arm and a spatula between his teeth. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here,” Sam says, dishing up the eggs chartres. “And the first time since I’ve been a wholly Petro trinity. You remember what Larry said about some of the horses trying to deal with the _sosyete_ on their own?” Dean nods, takes a bite of the casserole and reaches for the punch, drains half of his glass to try and put the fire in his mouth out. “They tried, but only half-heartedly. It’s a test to see what I do.” 

Dean blows on his next bite, tastes the eggs instead of heat this time. “A test? What kind of test?” 

“I told them I’d start making some changes,” Sam says, sitting down to his own plate. “One of the other Petro horses ridden by Simbe said changes would come after certain things happened. Now that I’ve said they have, people are getting anxious. No one’s sure what I’ll do.” 

“Especially because you’re Petro,” Dean guesses. “Only the Petro horses seem to respect the Petro loa.” Sam starts to defend the Rada, say that they aren’t that bad, that some of them are wonderful, but Dean asks, “What did they say would happen first?” and Sam shuts up, looks away. Dean frowns, narrows his eyes when he sees that the faintest hint of red is now staining Sam’s cheekbones, the arch under his eyebrows. “_Sam_?” 

Sam closes his eyes, holds himself tense, and replies, “That I’d form my own trinity and that I’d find my complement in the one whose other half is my other half’s other half.” 

Dean tilts his head, sets his fork down carefully. The tines scrape against his plate, clatter onto the tabletop. The noise makes Sam jump. “Me, in other words,” Dean says. “My rider’s Ogou, who’s married to Danny. So now that I’m here, you’re going to start laying down the law? Damn straight.” Sam opens his eyes, surprised. “What, you think I’m gonna let people like Dennis walk over you? I might not be college-smart but I wasn’t born yesterday, Sam. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to these people, no matter how much an idiot you can be sometimes. You let them run roughshod, you’re not just making your own life harder, you’re taking away something of the loa from them. I can’t fault some of them for treating you the way they do; Tony and his crew are good people, and I’m sure I’ll meet more, but the others, if you don’t rein them in, I will. I’m beginning to get the impression I have more than enough authority to do just that.” 

He stops, leans back, takes a breath. His heart’s racing; he’s just, in some respects, laid down the law to his little brother, who is also his _poto mitan_. Dean’s starting to realise what a difficult line to walk that’s going to be, but he’s already used to walking thin lines when it comes to Sam. This can’t be any worse than falling in love with his brother, definitely won’t be worse than hiding the way he feels from their father.

“You mean it,” Sam asks, half a question and half a plea. “You really.” He stops, makes this noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a choked-back sob. Sam rubs his eyes, and when he looks at Dean, the loa are near to crowding Sam’s eyes. 

“I mean it,” Dean says. “You and me, together. So we have a couple others along for the ride, too. Doesn’t matter.” 

Sam looks away, down at the table. He looks like he’s going to say something but the phone rings and Sam darts away to answer it before Dean can so much as open his mouth. Instead, Dean listens, can hear Sam’s side of the conversation. Sam sounds formal, almost rigidly so, and, strangely enough, more southern, as he agrees to meet someone at Canal and Exchange that afternoon at three. 

Dean turns in his chair, sees Sam stand in the doorway, looking thoughtful. “That was Adolphe,” Sam says. Dean raises an eyebrow, and Sam says, “The leader of Midnight’s _sosyete_. We’re meeting them in four hours. There’s something you need to know about Adolphe. He’s a vodouisante and a hoodoo practitioner, but because he’s placed himself in a _sosyete_, he doesn’t recognise me as the head of the faith. He’s not ridden by any of the loa, no one in a _sosyete_ is, but he still communicates with them.” 

“What else?” Dean asks, once he’s digested that. 

“Adolphe and I fucked,” Sam says, blunt. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Twice, a couple years ago, before I formed the trinity with Sophie and Théo. We’re on good terms but are more like reluctant allies than anything else. We have a truce and we work together on keeping our way of life out of most civilians’, but that’s about it.” 

Dean’s eyes flick to the marks on Sam’s neck, the healing scabs and the blue-purple bruises around them, wonders whether or not he could convince Sam to show them off more, maybe let Dean make them deeper. When he looks back at Sam’s eyes, he can see the amusement there, as well as heat. 

“Eat before the eggs get cold,” Sam says, smile licking at the edges of his lips. “I need to call some people. If you thought Dennis was a bitch and Rose was a handful, I can’t wait for you to meet Penny.” 

“Too many goddamn women,” Dean mutters, as Sam disappears back into the kitchen. 

\--

Sam’s on the phone all afternoon, doing dishes and cleaning up while the telephone’s caught tight between his shoulder and ear. It looks uncomfortable but Dean’s never been one for the domestic side of life and doesn’t want to get roped into anything, so he wanders around the house, peeks in each room, studies the statues in the courtyard and checks out the altars in the basement, and eventually finds the _badjikan_ upstairs in the attic, a room the _badjikan_ has evidently made his own. 

The ceiling’s slanted, side to side, and baskets of plants hang from the centre beam. The walls are white and the floor’s done in a deep wood; the rest of the room is decorated in shades of pink and red, light and feminine trim, highlights, to contrast the deep, rich crimson scattered everywhere. 

“You’re making ‘im happy,” the _badjikan_ says, staring out of the window instead of looking at Dean. “That’s good, boyo.” 

“So you’re a horse for ‘Zulie Freda,” Dean says, inviting himself in and perching on the edge of the bed, silk under his fingertips when he strokes the covers. The _badjikan_ hums, so Dean gets bold, asks, “How does that even _work_? I mean, ‘Zulie’s as feminine as anyone I’ve ever met and. Dude. I don’t get how this all. I mean, female loa riding men, male loa riding women, you and Sam with Erzulie’s faces. I feel like I’m letting someone down by having a male loa rooting around in my head.” 

Lightning pulses around Ti-Jean’s block, and Dean’s internally rolling his eyes at Ogou as the _badjikan_ turns to face him, grin written all over his face. “You were once a horse for Marinette. Think you be any different from the rest of us?” Dean grimaces at the mention of Marinette, watches as the _badjikan_ nods as if that’s answered a question. “You won’t be able to hide from her forever, boyo.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean snaps out, suddenly terrified. He shivers, remembering the way it felt to have Marinette in his head, in control of his body. Acid fills his mouth, thinking about her, of hunting his brother, feeling Kate’s pulse flutter, thin skin so close to his knife and so delicate. 

“It means that she a loa,” the _badjikan_ says, gently. “And your brother be the _poto mitan_.” 

Dean shakes his head, stands up. “He bound her,” he says, fully aware that he sounds far too emotional about this. “They all did. She’s. There’s _no way_ she can get free.” 

The _badjikan_ leans back against the wall, one elbow on the windowsill. “It takes one person to let her free, boyo. Lucky for her, that one person loves her the way he ain’t been loving any of her brothers or sisters. Lucky for her, she got friends down here, working to weaken the bindings. Mebbe even find a way ‘round them.” 

“Friends,” Dean says, ignoring for now the mention of Sam and his completely insane history with Marinette. “What kind of friends? What the hell are you talking about?” 

“You’ll find out,” the _badjikan_ says. Dean thinks he hears promise under the words. “You’ll be finding out soon ‘nough. Now, you skedaddle on downstairs and leave me ‘lone. You been moving ‘round this house all afternoon, you only got an hour ‘fore you gotta be leaving.”

Dean narrows his eyes, takes a step backwards, toward the door, without taking his eyes off of the _badjikan_. He sees it then, the twist in the other man’s eyes, the one he immediately associates with loa and possession, and wonders if the warning about Marinette and her friends, Sam’s weakness, came from the man or the loa. As Dean leaves, heads downstairs, he decides it doesn’t really matter. Either way, he won’t disregard the warning. 

\--

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I,” Dean asks, once he tracks down Sam. 

His brother’s in the middle of the courtyard, kneeling in front of a small altar, fingers pressed at the feet of a figurine Dean immediately recognises as Karrefour. The figurine’s positioned at the middle of a crossroads, the ceramic streets stretching out in each direction painted red, and when Sam turns around to look at him, Dean sees the madness of black magic Petro breaking apart and twisting like a kaleidoscope in Sam’s eyes. 

Dean shuts his mouth, afraid for Sam like he’s never been before, then realises Sam might misinterpret that as fear _of_ Sam, so he swallows it down and half-wishes he had Ogou’s cocky assurance to draw on, Ogou’s complete trust in himself, the derision the loa feels for Sam’s faults, the faith each Petro seems to have in every other Petro. 

“What?” Sam asks. The question’s blunt, but the tone’s sharp, more as if Sam’s afraid of something than annoyed at the interruption. 

“I missed something,” Dean says, repeating himself but more sure of the fact this time. “What was it?” 

Sam turns back to the figure of Karrefour and strokes his fingers down the ceramic, from the crown of Karrefour’s head to the tip of Karrefour’s feet. Sam kisses one fingertip, then, and touches the middle of each of the four roads before standing. Dean sees Sam’s shoulders move, like he’s taken a deep breath. 

“Well?” Dean’s not the most patient person but he usually tries. This time, knowing something’s wrong but not knowing enough to guess at what it might be, he lets the impatience bleed through into his voice. “_Sam_.” 

“We have an hour, Dean,” Sam says, instead of answering. “We could both do with a shower before we go. It’s not a far walk.” 

Dean snarls, doesn’t even try holding it back, and he sees Sam’s shoulders hunching inwards. “Turn around and look at me, Sam. If you’re going to ignore me and do a fucking piss-poor job as my _barriè_, I want you to do it to my face.” 

Sam straightens at that, the impugnation of his honour, and whirls around more gracefully than Dean would ever have imagined his brother to be, wonders if the loa are involved somehow. Sam’s lips are curled in revulsion, disgust, and Dean’s taken aback even through the fury. 

“You know more about what’s happening than anyone other than me,” Sam hisses. He sounds vaguely like a snake and Dean sees one of the other figurines glowing, slightly; not Karrefour, not Ti-Jean, it’s someone who’s slithering on the ground, the base of its ceramic figure painted blue for water. “I haven’t kept _anything_ from you. If you’re missing something, it’s because there’s something you don’t know about our way of life and I don’t know enough of what you know, what you’ve guessed, or what you’ve completely misconceived to correct your understanding. You are _mine_ and you are Ogou’s, and neither one of us would hide anything from you.” 

“Unless it would suit your purpose,” Dean argues back, despite the way Sam’s glaring at him, narrowed eyes sparkling with loa, every muscle in his body tense. “You haven’t told me anything, Sam! It’s like pulling teeth.” Sam bares his teeth, so Dean says, “That night, in Clarksdale. You were going to say something. ‘Would you,’ you said. But you never finished your thought. What were you going to say?” 

The anger flushes from Sam’s face, disappears into a flash of that same desperate longing that Dean’s noticed a few times, then fades out into a blank nothing that shakes Dean down to his core. 

Stalemate. Dean’s not willing to give up and Sam doesn’t look at all like he’s going to answer the question. Which is why Dean jumps when Sam actually opens his mouth and says, “There’s a way I could’ve thinned the block enough for you and Ogou to talk but not enough for him to ride you. It’s sort of the way you talked to the Baron but more permanent, without the necessary invitation.” 

Dean blinks, finally asks, “Why didn’t. I didn’t know that was possible. Why didn’t you tell me? Give me the option?” 

Sam looks away, looks back at that statue of the slithering loa, then turns, looks the other way, at a statue of a skeleton with a spear in one hand, the other resting on the head of a wolf, bones scattered at its feet. The ceramic’s painted red, the red of blood and violence. Dean frowns, following his brother’s gaze. “Because I’m scared.” Sam stops there, eyes caught on that one figurine. “Because I’m. Dean, Ogou and Danny are in six kinds of crazy love. _I’m_ in love with Ogou; I can’t _not_ be, not with as close as Danny and I are. You saw me back in St. Louis; Ogou rides a horse and I can’t.” He takes a deep breath. “You and me, right? But Danny and Ogou.”

He stops there again. Dean tilts his head, thinks about what Sam’s said and what he isn’t saying, still staring at that figure. Dean remembers St. Louis well: the way he and Sam fucked for hours, until Dean fell asleep in exhaustion, the gleam in Sam’s eyes; the look in every single of the Petro horses’ eyes, watching them; the ceremony, when Sam melted into the kiss an Ogou-ridden horse had given him. The look in the kitchen, earlier, and Ogou’s joking, how Tony had reacted when Sam said Dean felt lightning, it all starts coming together. 

“You love him,” Dean breathes, and doesn’t bother hiding the pain he feels at the thought. Sam winces. “But. Sam, I don’t understand. What the hell’s between you and Marinette?” Dean watches his brother closely, doesn’t miss the flash of surprise, of painful hope; he wonders where it comes from, what it means. 

“I love _you_,” Sam says. He’s speaking softly, but his jaw’s tense, as if he expects Dean to laugh at the admission. When Dean doesn’t, Sam looks up, meets his eyes for the first time in minutes. “I’m _in_ love with you. I’ve said it before and I’ve said it again, I’ve said it drunk and now I’ll say it sober: everyone and everything else can fuck off. I might have vévés tattooed all over my body, but I can leave it all. I’d feel guilty as hell, but I could. I don’t need them, Dean, not the way I need you.”

All of the hair on Dean’s body stands on end, charged with electricity and nervousness, with need and want and everything else between the two. Dean’s heard it, sure, but he’s never _known_ it, not the way he does now. He belongs to Sam and always has, spent three years trying to live without Sam and failing miserably, is willing to put up with loa living inside of his skin and not thinking twice about killing people who make life for Sam difficult. Now, at this very moment, it hits him like nothing else ever has: as much as he needs Sam, wants Sam, Sam needs and wants him back. 

He moves, faster than he thinks his body should be able to move, and takes Sam’s face in his hands, rough and uncaring, biting his way into Sam’s mouth, using teeth and nails past the point of worrying whether or not he’s hurting his brother -- judging from the noises Sam’s making, the way Sam’s scrabbling at Dean’s hips, dragging his teeth across any part of Dean he can, Sam doesn’t mind. 

Dean’s almost frantic, can feel the blood in his entire body boiling, but he can’t let it get out of control, not now. He dials down the intensity of the kiss, takes Sam with him, and when Sam’s leaning against him, panting and shaking, Dean whispers, “What’s the deal with Marinette, Sam?” 

“She was a priestess,” Sam replies, about as loudly as Dean had asked. Dean’s holding his breath, knows it’s wrong to take advantage of Sam like this but he’s getting answers. “Before she died, she was a _mambo_. She’s violent but it’s a clean violence, y’know? No pretence. When I started, I needed someone who wouldn’t play games. She never played games. She never lied to me, not once, no matter what I wanted to know. Marinette can free people from bondage, did you know that? She was human before she died and then she became a loa because she was so strong. Sometimes I think she’s everything we were taught to kill.”

Sam’s rambling now, talking in between hitching little breaths, and Dean can feel moisture seep into his shirt, doesn’t know what Sam’s trying to say but knows that his brother’s crying. “Sam, come on,” he says, suddenly feeling completely out of his element. Sam crying, he’s dealt with that before, too many times to count, but not like this, not knowing exactly _why_. 

So Marinette was a human, so she was a priestess, so she never lied, so she can free people -- Dean stops. Marinette was human before she died, and now she’s a cruel loa that sets people free. Sam always thought he’d be free, and he’s the strongest _poto mitan_ these people can remember. It goes together, Dean can feel that like he can feel the beginning of a hunt coming on, the sixth sense that means he’s on the right trail and will find his prey waiting for him at the end.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and Dean can only shake his head at the way Sam pushes it all down, inside, hidden and out of the way. Sam’s brushing tears off of his face with the back of his hand, stepping back and glancing over to his left, at that statue of the skeleton; Dean’s not sure if Sam’s apologising to him or to it. “We should get ready. Go and shower, I’ll be up in a minute.” 

Dean weighs his options, finally nods, says, “Sure. I’ll hurry.” As he walks away, he looks over his shoulder; Sam’s kneeling at the foot of that skeleton, forehead on his hands, hunched in and trying to take up as little space as possible. Dean misses a step, puts one hand on the wall for balance, and feels the block in the back of his head shudder under the pressure of a direct bolt of lightning. 

\--

No one bothers them when they leave the house on Dauphine and head for Canal. Marianne, in the other direction, calls out something but it’s not in a language Dean understands. He glances over at Sam, sees his brother’s lips tighten in what looks like anger at first sight, looks like amusement at the second. 

“She’s wishing us luck,” Sam murmurs, exchanging nods with a man leaning against an open door, beer in one hand and cigar in the other.

Dean mutters something about luck and horses that has Sam trying not to laugh even when they’re walking down Canal, ignored by the tourists save for the ones staring at Sam’s tattooed arms, greeted silently by people who must know Sam or know of Sam. Dean’s trying to play it cool but when a guy leaning against the front wall of a VooDoo Mart inclines his head in Sam’s direction and offers his pack of cigarettes, Dean can’t stop the noise in the back of his throat. 

“What?” Sam asks, shaking his head at the offer of smokes but smiling at the man. A streetcar coming up Canal, heading away from the river, rings its bells; at the next intersection, Sam turns toward the street, waits until it’s safe and then crosses over to the median. 

Dean follows after a split-second’s hesitation, confusion, and when the streetcar passes them, when it appears that Sam’s content to stand there in the middle of the streetcar tracks, he says, “Dude, what the hell?” 

Sam frowns at him, his expression clearing like a lightbulb’s just gone off a moment later. “Neutral ground,” he says. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t. It’s not like territory, though it is, sort of. It’s another name for the median here. Back when New Orleans was Creole, they didn’t care for American newcomers. The new residents stayed upriver and the old ones stayed downriver, in the Quarter. This is where they came to do business; everyone stayed out of everyone else’s neighbourhoods, lives.”

“Neutral ground,” Dean says, getting what Sam’s telling him. The streetcar’s paused at the next stop, people getting in the front, paying their fare, getting off through the back in ones and twos, some of them laughing, some of them silent. One group of three has latched their eyes on Sam and Dean, and Dean stiffens, seeing it. “Friends of yours?” he asks, not taking his eyes off of the group. 

“The ones we’re here to meet,” Sam replies. “Adolphe’s in the middle; he’s brought his second and his chief _bokò_.” 

Dean studies the three men, decides they look as if they can all handle themselves, tries to reconcile his brother with Adolphe the way he’s had to reconcile Sam with Théo and Sophie. “Why so many?” he asks, and, then, “Should we have brought other people?” 

Sam doesn’t answer right away, waits until the three are crossing the Exchange traffic turn-around, and finally says, “We’ll be enough. They’re more scared of us than we are of them. We have the loa, after all.” 

There isn’t much to say to that, so Dean settles on humming, sticking close to Sam’s elbow as the three men approach them. The people around them, either tourists or residents, Dean doesn’t know, give them a wide berth, hurrying past the five of them as Adolphe comes to a halt in front of Sam, just out of arm’s reach. 

“_Poto mitan_,” Adolphe says, inclining his head. His second and his hoodoo sorcerer both glance at Dean, inhale as if they’re trying to scent which loa has its claws in him, but Adolphe has eyes only for Sam. 

“It’s good to see you,” Sam answers back. “This is Dean.” 

The man on Adolphe’s left shifts, says, “Ogou is his _met tet_? He reeks of warfare and bloodshed.” 

“Danny approves,” Sam says, lifting one shoulder in a very slight shrug. “Her approval, Ogou’s, my own: it’s more than enough.” 

The man looks like he’s about to say something else, but Adolphe makes a slight movement and both of his followers shut up, shift but stay there, watching with hooded eyes. “Why are you here, _papalwa_? Speak plainly, now we’re alone and on neutral ground.” 

“Part of Midnight’s _konesan_ has gone missing,” Sam says, not missing a beat. Adolphe’s eyes narrow. “I was hoping you might be able to track them for us so that I can retrieve them.” 

Dean frowns this time; he had been under the impression that Adolphe and his people were the ones stealing the boxes, wonders what the hell’s going on. He starts playing back every conversation relating to the boxes, their disappearance, trying to figure out where he’s gone wrong. 

“You know who has them already,” Adolphe says. “You have to. Why are.” He stops, abruptly, and Dean has the peculiar experience of seeing a nonconformist vodouisante pale, reach out to the _poto mitan_ and beg. “Get them back, please. We’ll do anything, I swear it, to Bondye and _le gran met_, everything up to and including my soul, if you get them back before they can do anything.” 

“Get me the list,” Sam says, sliding out of Adolphe’s grasp on his wrist, taking both of Adolphe’s hands in his, squeezing and stepping closer. Dean’s watching, utterly confused, and feels the slightest bit better when he sees that both of Adolphe’s people look flummoxed as well. “If you can tell me where they are, for certain, I’ll get them back and take what measures are necessary.” 

Adolphe nods as he steps back, gathers the tattered shreds of his composure, takes a deep breath. “We’ll have the locations by eleven. Where shall we send them?” 

Sam grins, almost wickedly, and says, “We’ll be in St. Louis Number One at midnight. Meet us there.” Adolphe groans but nods, and Sam’s smile fades as he adds, “Make sure you’re certain of the locations you give us, Adolphe, you and your _sosyete_ both. Things will change with this information.” 

“An expert and outside opinion,” Adolphe says, serious now as well, “I should hope so. You bring us all hope, Sam. I wish you luck. We’ll meet you at midnight.” 

Adolphe bows slightly, from the waist up, and turns, giving his back to Sam. The other two aren’t so quick to do the same but they follow their leader, head upriver across Canal, disappear between the shadows of hotel skyscrapers. 

“What the fuck,” Dean says, looking at Sam. 

“Not here,” Sam says, and when the next streetcar comes along, heading towards the river, Sam says, “We’ll ride down past Toulouse, grab some coffee, talk when we’re back in the Quarter.” 

Dean grouses but he doesn’t have much of a choice, not when Sam pays their fares and climbs onto the streetcar, moving to the back and flipping a seat around so they can sit across from each other, next to the window and a sad, struggling breeze.


	5. Chapter 5

They get coffee from Café du Monde, that and two orders of beignets, and loiter around Jackson Square, watching the street performers and tourists. Dean’s still thinking and he’s not liking the conclusions he’s drawing, putting his assumptions to the side and going over the _exact_ wording people have used, from everyone in Chicago to Tony to Sam himself. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, just devours his beignets and drinks down his café au lait, burning his tongue on the first sip and savouring the chicory every swallow after that, keeps an eye on Sam. His brother looks infuriatingly calm on the outside but Dean can see the loa skimming over the surface of Sam’s eyes, knows what it means when Sam purses his lips after finishing his second beignet. 

Dean reaches over, brushes a stray piece of powdered sugar off of Sam’s chin, and Sam looks at him, eyes softening into a smile. “Watch out yourself,” Sam says, and draws his thumb along Dean’s upper lip, sucking the sugar off when he’s done. 

About to do something monumentally stupid, Dean jumps when the crowd starts applauding, cheering, for a performance just finished. He leans back from Sam, looks over shoulders and through gaps, sees three young kids wipe off their foreheads, pick up an old-school boombox and salute the crowd as five others take their place in front of the steps across from the Square. 

“Let’s go,” Sam says, leaning close to be heard, then backing off, tilting his head in invitation, silent question. Dean nods, follows Sam around the edge of the crowd, dumps the garbage in a can and runs across Decatur to avoid getting hit by any of the cars or horse-drawn carriages. 

They amble through Jackson Square, pause in front of the cathedral and take a left to St. Peter’s, then go up and turn on Royal Street, walking slow, taking in the scenery. Sam’s not in much of a hurry, it seems, and Dean guesses it’s because they have close to eight hours before they have to be up by Rampart, at the cemetery. 

“Why there?” he asks, and when Sam looks at him, eyebrow raised in amusement, Dean expands on his thought. “St. Louis One, at midnight. Dude. A cemetery. At _midnight_.” 

“Too many hunters have come and gone through Number One to have to worry about ghosts,” Sam says. “Besides, the last person the _sosyetes_ and my predecessor have in common was Marie Laveau. It’s another form of neutral ground.” He stops, then says, sounding as if he’s not even aware he’s saying it, “And with what we’re getting ready to do, any blessing from her would be appreciated.” 

Dean pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, looks at Sam, and asks, “What are we getting ready to do, Sam?” 

Sam looks sideways at him, then looks around. When Sam walks towards an art gallery, Dean’s not sure what to think, but Sam pauses at the front door, turns around and gives Dean an ‘_are you coming?_’ look, so Dean huffs, then sighs and follows his brother. 

\--

The inside of the store is lavish, thick carpets under Dean’s boots, chairs in dark woods and rich brocades, paintings on the wall that Dean recognises from calendars and notebook covers. It’s not a place Dean feels comfortable walking into, not exactly, especially when the owner comes around the corner, placid yet disapproving look on his face. The look drops, though, when he turns from Dean to Sam. 

“Sam!” he exclaims, and Dean hears an English accent in the owner’s voice. “What’re you. When did you get back?” He strides over, puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, looks up into Sam’s face. 

“We got into town yesterday, late morning,” Sam replies, grinning. “Stephen, I’d like you to meet Dean.” 

The man steps back from Sam, looks at Dean over his glasses, taking in everything from Dean’s hair, spiked up to keep it away from his skin, to his t-shirt, thin and ragged to let out body heat, to his boots, dusty and worn-in. Dean half-expects derision, but Stephen holds out a hand and says, “It’s good to meet you, Dean. Stephen Bradshaw, welcome to my gallery.” 

“It’s nice,” Dean says, shaking Stephen’s hand. “If I knew anything about art, I’m sure I’d love the place.” 

Stephen laughs, takes his glasses off and cleans them off on the end of his tie. “Not that I mind, Sam, of course, but what are you doing here?” 

Sam’s smile turns sheepish as he answers, “We need a quiet place to talk. Would you mind?” 

“Not at all,” Stephen says, almost immediately. “Just so long as nothing drips through the ceiling this time, all right?” 

“Promise,” Sam says. “Shouldn’t take long.” 

\--

In the back of the gallery, there’s a door marked ‘Private,’ discreet gold sign and, of course, Sam opens it with impunity and moves through the doorway. Dean follows, closes the door behind him, and climbs up a set of narrow, twisting stairs, opening out to a landing at the top, a sitting room decorated with the same taste as the gallery, if less opulent. Sam collapses into one of the leather chairs, gestures at another one, rubs his forehead. 

As Dean settles carefully into the leather, hearing it creak under him as he shifts, Sam says, “What do you think is happening, Dean? With the boxes, with me, with you?” 

Dean weighs the intelligence of telling Sam about his conversation with Ogou, about the way he can feel lightning all the time, now, is already starting to feel as if maybe he’s getting used to someone else sharing his body. “I thought the _sosyete_ was stealing them,” Dean says. “But thinking back, no one actually said that. All anyone said in Chicago was that the boxes were disappearing and the people you had left them with didn’t know where they were or who had taken them. They’d tried asking around, but the _sosyete_ wouldn’t help. The questions you asked the loa in St. Louis, you never said any names, so I’d assumed the _sosyete_ even though you never mentioned them, either. Strange things, Larry had said, but he turned out to be dick so I didn’t think about it. And then you and Tony, you and Dennis; I don’t know enough when it comes to what you were all talking about to know.” 

Sam grins at Dean’s estimation of Larry, ducking his head, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, but the smile fades into solemnity when Dean stops, waits for Sam to say something. “Do you remember what Tony said when I told him you were Petro-sensitive? I said the meeting might take longer, and Tony said.”

“That it wasn’t the best time for this to be happening,” Dean replies, slowly, after a few seconds pause to search his memory. “Dude, what the fuck?” 

“During the ceremony, before I started questioning the loa, right after the horses were mounted, what were we talking about?” 

Sam’s obviously determined that Dean should piece things together, so Dean leans back in the oversized chair, twines his fingers together on top of his belly, and stares at the ceiling to think. Tony’d called the drummers, Legba opened the doors, four of the horses came to the middle and were mounted. Sam had killed the chicken, the horses had been given rum out of wooden bowls, and then the first of them had looked at Sam and said, what? “We think you’re getting serious about reining in the others,” Dean says, haltingly. “It’s about time, you’d been busy with other things but you were getting started.” He shifts, looks at Sam, asks, “Started with what?” 

“The last _poto mitan_ before me died back in the late seventies,” Sam answers. “The vodouisantes have been, for all intents and purposes, on their own and without leadership since then. Each group in each city had de facto leaders, sure, but there was no real system of governance, no one for the various _sosyete_ leaders to parlay with, no one to keep _zo reglemen_. Once I became the _poto mitan_ in action as well as name, the loa informed me that I needed to bring everyone back into line. I’ve had other things to deal with -- forming my original trinity, Marinette -- but I’m beginning to get things back to where they should be.” 

Dean frowns, says, “Starting with Chicago. But.” He pauses there, wondering what the hell Sam getting everyone into line has to do with stolen boxes. Dean stops, starts to put things together. Midnight’s _sosyete_ didn’t steal the boxes, which means someone else did. The only ones who know about them, though, are the other vodouisantes. There’s one person who Dean already distrusts, who the _badjikan_ and Ogou both warned him against, and who, Dean thinks, is stupid enough to go against all the influence Sam wields. 

“Dennis,” he says, looking at Sam with wide eyes, leaning forward, feeling lightning like the call to war sizzle at the edges of the block. “_Dennis_ stole the boxes?” 

“It’s politics,” Sam says, looking at his hands. “The horses in Chicago, they were one thing, but down here, well. Location is history, which is power. Traditionally, all the strongest horses are based in a geographical line from Baton Rouge to Biloxi, with New Orleans at the centre of everything. Dennis is one of the strongest Rada horses but it’s probably more to do with the history of her family, the lineage.” 

Dean snorts, says, “She’s never liked you, has she? And this is the way she’s challenging you. By stealing the boxes. What does she expect to happen?”

Sam shakes his head. “That, I don’t know.” Dean thinks his brother is lying, but he doesn’t have any reason for that guess beyond knowledge of Sam. “The dinner we had with her last night, she didn’t show her hand. I can make a couple guesses, but that’s all it is, guesswork. It depends on which boxes are gone.” 

As much as Dean doesn’t want to let on that he’s been talking to Ogou, he has something to offer to this conversation, finally. “Ogou said it has to do with Marinette.” Sam’s wide-eyed at the mention of Ogou, then narrow-eyed, looking like he’s pissed off and suspicious, both. “That not all of the Rada feel it was right to bind her. The _badjikan_ said she has friends down here to weaken the bindings that you and the other Petro placed on her. Dennis is a Rada horse and she’s stealing the boxes. They don’t have anything to do with Marinette but if you wanted them back and were prepared to bargain.” 

Sam stands up, effectively cutting Dean off. Dean watches as his brother paces across the landing, being careful not to go into any of the other rooms, not to even look at the other rooms, walking a straight line from his chair to the window on the other side of the building, in the middle of a small, narrow kitchen. 

“Dude,” Dean says, standing as well, not moving, content to fold his arms across his chest and stare at Sam’s back. “You know I’m right. That’s why you’ve been so worried, isn’t it? Why you can’t get over this whole thing you have with Marinette. Because everyone seems so intent on reminding you and using it against you. You know what Dad always said.” 

“Never show a weakness,” Sam says, and Dean doesn’t have to see his brother’s face to know that Sam’s teeth are clenched tight, that he’s furious because he knows, _knows_, that Dean’s right. “Which is all well and good if you’re hunting a were or salting a grave, but doesn’t help much in this situation.” Sam stops there, but Dean waits, and he isn’t surprised when Sam says, more calmly, slight hint of despair, “Besides, it’s too late for that now.” 

That’s when Dean moves, closing the distance between them in seconds, turning Sam to face him and pulling his brother down for a kiss, soft and as close to chaste as it’s ever going to be between them now. “Hey,” he says, quiet. “It’ll be all right. That list Adolphe’s going to give us, it’ll tell us where the boxes are, right?” Sam nods. “Then we’ll go get them back, deal with the Rada horses who have them, and kick Dennis out. No worries.” 

Sam smiles, bumps foreheads with Dean. “You make it sound so easy,” he says through a sigh. “It’s not going to be that easy. Nothing is _ever_ that easy.” 

“You’re the _poto mitan_ and I’m,” Dean starts to say, faltering. “You know. I’m me. We’ll be fine. Is there something you’re not telling me?” 

It takes a moment but Sam says, “Dean. You’re having conversations with Ogou?” 

Dean winces internally; he didn’t have a choice about confessing the talks but that doesn’t make him feel any better that Sam knows about them. He half-wonders if this is Sam’s way of avoiding the question, because Sam didn’t answer it, but that thought dies at the look on Sam’s face. “Not often. Just once, but there are times when I can feel what he feels, I think.” He grimaces, remembering the way he’d stalked after his brother, interrupted Sam’s shower and demanded the right to mark Sam for everyone else to see. 

“We could thin the block, if you want,” Sam offers, tentative and hesitant. Dean can see the loa in Sam’s eyes still, wait. “It would give you time to get used to it.” 

“Is that what you do with every Petro-sensitive person?” Dean asks, honestly curious. “Give them the option to hear the loa before they learn enough to be ridden?” 

Sam’s eyelashes brush down, up, as Sam breathes in, out. “No. But, to be fair, they’ve never been ridden before so they have no idea what to expect, just like they don’t have any past experience to overcome. And, you know, none of them are expected to be the other half of the _poto mitan_. You’re sort of, sort of a new thing, where we’re all concerned.” 

Dean grins, then snorts, then snickers, and Sam leans back, disentangles himself from Dean’s grasp, punches Dean on the arm. “Fuck you,” Sam says, though he’s smiling now as well. 

“Maybe later,” Dean says, once he’s stopped laughing, though he wants to start again when the smile on Sam’s face turns silly and the slightest flush dances across his cheekbones. “Now, what the hell was Stephen talking about when he said he didn’t want things coming through the floor?” 

\--

They leave, promising to stop by later and have a proper conversation with Stephen, and wander ‘round to Bourbon Street, pausing at Mango Mango to say hello to Rose. Kate’s behind the bar as well, the two of them in jeans and tanks, though Rose’s is a deep blue and shimmers every time she moves and Kate’s is green and has straps thick enough to hide the scar from where Sam pulled out Marinette.

“Want a drink, you two?” Rose calls, over the AC/DC pouring out of one bar a bit further down the street. Dean’s grooving out to the music, singing along at the top of his lungs and dancing in the street, and Sam’s trying to hide. It’s impossible, though, not with as big as Sam is, with _who_ Sam is, and Sam’s effort just makes Dean laugh and miss the beginning of the chorus. There’s a person in one gallery across the street, looking out and laughing at them with more than just a tourist’s amusement, and Kate’s snickering, not even pretending to work. 

“Don’t think Dean needs any help,” Sam says, leaning down on the bar, hunched over and groaning something else about embarrassing older siblings that Dean can’t hear over a sudden drum solo. 

Dean, in the street and laughing, waits until the song’s done and changed in to some pre-haircut Bon Jovi before making his way into the bar, slapping Sam on the back and sitting down next to Sam. “Can’t ignore good music, little brother.” 

Rose inhales sharply, freezing in the midst of pouring out a daiquiri; Dean glances over at Kate, who’s smacking her forehead, and Sam, who’s also doing a very good impression of a mannequin. 

“We didn’t tell you,” Dean says, feeling his stomach churn. “We didn’t. Oh, fuck.” 

Kate moves forward, slings an arm around Rose’s shoulders, uses the other to take the bottle of rum out of her girlfriend’s hand. “It’s not that fucking bad, sweets. They’re in love. Fucking rabid, crazy love.” 

“It’s not going to be a problem, is it?” Dean asks, glaring at Rose, one hand pressed to the small of Sam’s back. 

“No,” Rose says, nearly immediately. Sam's head tilts up; Dean doesn’t want to look over and see hope on his brother’s face knowing he’s responsible for the slip-up. “I just. Fuck me sideways, y’all. I never would’ve guessed.” She waves one hand, nearly smacks Kate, says, “Sorry,” almost sheepishly, glancing between the three of them. “Long day. Brothers. _Really_?” 

Dean snorts, asks, “It’s not obvious?” because to him, at least, it is. Then again, even Tony didn’t know, just said he thought it seemed like they’d known each all their lives. Sam elbows him and when Dean looks over, Sam shakes his head slightly, bruised expectation in his eyes, swirling in the loas’ wake. 

“What’s obvious is that you can’t fucking stay out of each other’s damn jeans,” Kate says. “Now buy a fucking drink or get the hell out of here.” 

Sam slides off the stool, pulling Dean along with him. He steps back, Dean can see the air conditioning ruffle Sam’s hair, and asks, “We’ll see you two back at the house?” 

It’s a question of acceptance more than anything, and Rose doesn’t even need Kate’s prompting to say, “Duh. Now, do as the woman said and get the hell out of here.” Dean gives her the finger, she gives it back, sticking her tongue out as well, and Sam rolls his eyes and tugs Dean down Bourbon Street. 

\--

This time it’s Dean who strolls down Bourbon and Sam who lets him, content for now to let Dean have his way and explore the city that calls Sam her own. Dean looks inside every bar, checks out every pizza place and daiquiri stand, listens to the music piping out from courtyard restaurants and karaoke pits, raising eyebrows at the sex shops. He finally hits a souvenir shop and pulls Sam inside, drapes three different boas and a handful of bead necklaces over Sam’s freakish hair to hang around his neck, tries without success to get a Mardi Gras mask to look anywhere near awesome on Sam’s face. 

Giving up, Dean picks one out for himself; the elastic is almost too tight but it’s worth it for the laugh from the person behind the counter, a young kid watching them with fascination, as if they’re doing something millions of tourists haven’t already done. Dean picks out a black boa, as well as a blue one, to go with his mask, touches the regular beads then picks up a few of the garish ones, beads interspersed with charms -- liquor bottles, cowboy boots, tiny little masks -- and puts them on. 

“Dude, we’re in _New Orleans_,” Dean says, in lieu of explanation. “We have nothing to do and nowhere to be for _hours_. Take a chill pill and loosen the fuck up, Samantha.” 

This time, when Sam punches, he doesn’t hold much back. Of course, he doesn’t argue with Dean, even goes so far as to get a different mask, trade the pink, purple, and gold boas for red, black, and silver, and presses some form of cash in the kid’s hand. 

Dean’s about to ask what the hell’s going on, but then Sam gets in his face, looks at him with those tip-tilted fox-eyes half-hidden behind a mask, and licks a trail up Dean’s neck for the feathers to stick to. “Have you ever felt a feather boa on your dick?” Sam murmurs, hands splayed under Dean’s t-shirt, hot skin pressed against Dean’s own, thumbs rubbing ribs while fingertips dance along the waistband of Dean’s jeans. Sam drags his teeth along Dean’s neck, a move that has Dean swallowing, has him shivering when those teeth pause at the scabs and bite around them. “It’s a feeling like nothing else, Dean. And they aren’t strong enough to tie wrists to headboards, but they make handcuffs and rope more comfortable.” 

Sam leans back, all indolent smile and superheated eyes, and Dean’s mouth goes dry. “Holy fuck,” Dean says. He’s not sure whether to be angry that Sam’s apparently done this with other people or more turned on than he’s ever been before at the thought of doing this with Sam, feels like his indecision’s written all over his face, knows it is when Sam’s smile turns into a smirk and the kid behind the counter’s whistling, using a ‘_Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!_’ fan to cool himself off. 

“We’ll try it,” Sam says, one eyebrow raised in question, though he licks his lips, pulls the mask on more securely, straightening out feathers as if he hasn’t said something that’s got blood pounding through Dean’s body. 

“Fuck yeah we will,” Dean replies, taking Sam by the hand and leaving the store to the clerk’s cat-call. “We’ve got hours ‘til midnight. We’ll do it _now_.” 

Sam’s laughter follows them back to the house.

\--

They can’t keep their hands off each other, stumble back to the house on Dauphine to a chorus of wolf-whistles and amused laughter. Dean pushes Sam against the wall while he scrabbles at the door handle, lips pressing forceful and hard against Sam’s, masks clinking against one another and shifting. 

“Goddamn door,” Dean mutters, tearing himself away to look down, turn the damned knob and push the door open, push a laughing Sam through. “Fuck that laugh right out of you,” Dean growls, tugging Sam up the steps. The _badjikan_ emerges from the kitchen, eyes wide but smiling, and starts to say something about a phone call, about Dennis and Adolphe. Dean’s horny, Ogou’s horny, and Sam’s right _there_, six feet, four inches of pure, dripping heat. “It can wait,” Dean yells. “Can fucking wait ‘til midnight like it’s fucking well supposed to!” 

He slams the door when they get to the bedroom, is all set to push Sam down on the bed and fuck his brother stupid, but Sam crowds up against him, gets Dean’s back to the door, and nips at Dean’s jaw. 

“Slow down,” Sam murmurs, and his hands settles at Dean’s hips as one leg pushes between Dean’s, keeping Dean pressed to the door. Feathers stick to Dean’s neck and itch. “We’re not in a hurry, are we? Plenty of time to enjoy this.” 

“Don’t wanna wait,” Dean pants, as one of Sam’s hands ghosts its way across the crotch of Dean’s jeans, cups his hardening dick through the denim. “Come on, Sam. _Can’t_ wait.” 

Sam’s lips smile against Dean’s neck; Dean can feel it linger for a moment. He lifts his hands, runs them through Sam’s hair, feels them catch the curls. There’s a second when Dean thinks he could yank Sam’s head up, back, and mark the long line of Sam’s throat, shove his brother down to the mattress and keep him there, but Sam’s fingers move up and under his t-shirt, Sam’s nose bumps against the marks on Dean’s neck. 

“Let me do this, Dean,” Sam says, half-begging. “Please, Dean. Let me?” 

If there’s one thing guaranteed to get Dean to back off, it’s Sam asking him; if there’s one thing these days guaranteed to get Dean to do _anything_ it’s Sam begging. It’s hard but not impossible to get himself under control; a couple deep breaths help, the short snap of cold when Sam backs away goes even further. 

“Relax,” Sam says, reaching out, placing his hand over Dean’s sternum before stepping backwards, towards the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.” He lifts his t-shirt over his head, takes it off, and readjusts the mask when he’s done, slings the boas back around his neck. Dean’s eyes scan over Sam’s body, the tattoos all over Sam’s chest and stomach, shoulders and upper arms, vévés on his forearms. They move as Sam breathes, inhale, exhale, and Dean’s eyes trail upwards, focusing on Sam’s. “C’mere,” Sam says, crooking one finger. 

Dean moves, crosses the room to where Sam is, heart hammering in his chest. He stands there, fingers itching to reach out and touch, as Sam gently takes off Dean’s mask and sets it on the bed. They’re silent as Sam takes off Dean’s t-shirt, places the mask back on Dean’s face and adjusts the elastic behind Dean’s ears. Sam drops to his knees and unties Dean’s boot laces, takes them off carefully and pulls Dean’s socks off as well. Dean settles one hand on Sam’s shoulder, thumb grazing Sam’s neck, moving back and forth over the marks there, nail catching on the scabs. 

Sam undoes the button and zipper of Dean’s jeans, pulls them down to let them puddle around Dean’s ankles. He leans forward, then, and inhales the smell of precome gathering on Dean’s cock, fluid darkening his boxer-briefs. Dean almost trembles with the urge to pick Sam up, throw him on the bed, and stake his claim; Sam asked him to wait, begged to be able to do this, like this, so Dean thinks of ice and metal, trellises fixed in place and solid, unmoving. 

Once Dean’s entirely naked and Sam’s stripped down to nothing, Sam pushes Dean on to the bed, has him stretch out and lie on his back. “Trust me,” Sam mouths, tongue and teeth against Dean’s collarbone, tugging at the skin and licking it in turn. 

It’s just the two of them in a room that smells of perfume and rum, in a room that’s hazy and humid. “Always,” Dean says, and lets Sam curl his hands around the iron headboard. There’s no rope, no handcuffs, but Sam still takes one of the boas from around his neck and loops it around Dean’s wrists. A matter of trust, and a measure of how much Dean is willing to do before Sam pushes him past the point of control; Dean appreciates the gesture, the freedom Sam’s allowing him, but he means what he’s said. Sam could ask anything at this moment and Dean would do it in a heartbeat. 

The thought isn’t as worrying as it should be, half because Dean knows Sam understands, half because Dean’s beginning to _know_, deep down in the pit of his stomach, that Sam feels the same way. 

Sam kisses and licks and bites his way down Dean’s body, nibbles at the juncture of hip and thigh. Feathers stroke Dean’s skin, sticking to the fever-hot sweat for a split-second each time Sam hesitates over a piece of flesh, dragging on when Sam moves. It’s at once the most annoying and most arousing thing ever; he wants to bat at the boa and itch his skin at the same time that the delicate touch strokes and stimulates him, hypersensitive and reacting to each movement with the barest edge of pleasure instead of torture. 

When Sam gets to Dean’s dick, he mouths the head, tongues the shaft, then sits up and takes one of the boas from around his neck. “You’ll ruin it,” Dean says, as steady as he can manage. 

“Buy more,” Sam says, and even as Dean can see his brother in the shrug, Sam’s still wearing the mask, still looks half-alien and exotic, framed with feathers, shadows turning his skin purple, green. “We’re in New Orleans, after all, and one block from Bourbon.” Sam pauses, though, as if he’s waiting for a sign, so Dean swallows and nods, closes his eyes on an exhaled curse as Sam loops the boa lightly around his cock, hard and aching, then behind his balls, the ends curling down his thighs to tickle the skin on the inside of his legs. 

Sam bends down and sucks in earnest. Dean arches as his dick’s enveloped in wet heat, Sam’s tongue running along the underside, teeth grazing light enough to have Dean wanting more. The beads hanging around Sam’s neck fall and sway on Dean’s skin even as the feathers from the boa are starting to drive him crazy. He wants to move his hands, to run his fingers through Sam’s hair and then hold Sam still, fuck Sam’s mouth, but the boa catches him off-guard when he goes to move. Dean thinks of handcuffs and not being able to touch Sam, thinks of how much Sam wants to do this, and grips the headboard tighter, exerting every inch of willpower that he possesses. 

“Taste so good,” Sam murmurs, coming up for air and licking his lips, running his tongue over his teeth. His eyes fill the holes left by the mask, seem focused on Dean’s cock, as if Sam can’t get enough, can’t take his eyes away for fear that this all might be a mirage. 

Dean thinks he understands, what little mental capacity he still possesses as Sam bends back down. It’s been three months since Dean went to San Francisco in search of his brother, three months since he ran up the stairs and saw Sam sitting there, Lakwa and others filling his mind, riding him and laughing, as if they knew something Dean didn’t. Three months, and Dean doesn’t know how he lived so long without this, without _Sam_, like _this_, naked above him. 

“Inside,” Dean says, lifting one foot to dig his heel into Sam’s side. Sam looks up at him, lips pink and swollen, pupils blown, sweat covering his body as well. Dean glances over his brother as Sam sits up, can’t help the pleased smirk when he sees that Sam’s as hard as him, looking like he’s more than ready to be fucked. “Sam, I don’t care how, but I have to fuck you _now_.” 

Sam smirks as well, one corner of his mouth curling upwards, and he runs one finger along the bottom of his mask, coquettish and sly. “Then fuck me,” he says, tone sibilant; he sounds as if he’s being ridden but Dean knows the loa aren’t doing more than circling in Sam’s mind, whispering and murmuring god knows what. 

Thinking about that, it takes a second for Sam’s words to kick in, but Dean moves the instant that they do, tears his hands out of the boa looping him to the headboard, sits up and pounces on Sam, manhandles him until Sam’s on his back, legs spread and knees pushed back almost to his shoulders. One of the necklaces breaks, sends purple and gold beads bouncing all across the room, but neither of them stop. 

Dean bends down, starts licking around Sam’s hole, tongue darting inside every so often, random, no rhyme or reason to the pattern, and it doesn’t take long before Sam’s spread out and panting underneath him, hot and hard and aching, eyes so clear a green they sparkle when the loa move. 

He’s still wearing the ridiculous mask; Dean reaches up and pushes it off, throws it onto the ground, rips his own off and tosses it as well, takes off the boas but doesn’t bother with the beads. “Condom?” he asks, desperate and impatient. 

It takes a second before the question penetrates Sam’s brain, but Dean doesn’t mind, feels a full-body flush shiver its way from his head to his toes when Sam replies, “Fuck me without one. Wanna feel your come in me when we’re out later.” Sam closes his eyes, gets a near-dreamy smile on his face, and adds, shades of Danny in his voice, “Want them all to know who I belong to. Want the signs of you all over me.” 

An invitation like that, Dean doesn’t waste time. Sam’s lubed well enough and open, begging for it, so Dean guides himself in and starts to fuck his brother, hips snapping back and forth, Sam slipping into Creole beneath him. 

\--

It doesn’t take long for them both to come, not after that, after the entire day. Foreplay’s becoming a thing of the past, Dean thinks, lying on his back next to Sam, both of them trying to catch their breath; living with Sam, at least down here, is continual foreplay, things hot and wet and humid between them just like the air, just like the atmosphere between Danny and Ogou. Dean doesn’t know if they’re taking on something of the loa or the weather, or if this is all them, but he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. 

“Next time you have an idea like that,” Dean finally says, “don’t tell me. Not when we have to hang out in a cemetery afterwards. Okay?” 

Sam snorts, shifts until he’s laying his head on Dean’s arm, hair curling every which way and probably getting tangled up in the beads both of them are still wearing. “We’ve got plenty of time, isn’t that what you said?” 

Dean reaches over with his other hand, scratches Sam’s scalp before gently tapping his brother’s forehead. “What is it Ti-Jean called you, an _idyo_? Dude, only thing I want to do right now is take a nap, maybe have another go in a couple hours. A meeting with one of your former fuck-buddies in the same cemetery as Marie Laveau’s bones isn’t exactly high on my list of priorities. Sleep, sex, sleep, sex, maybe a shower and some food, nothing that requires clothes, definitely nothing that requires leaving the house.” 

“You’re the one that wanted to do this now,” Sam says, arguing back, though it doesn’t sound as if he’s all that keen on getting up, either. “We could’ve waited.” 

Dean doesn’t even dignify that with a response. 

\--

They do get up, get dressed. Dean watches Sam, can see bruises starting to darken, can see the faintest trail of come down the back of one leg. Sam pulls boxers on, looks over his shoulder at Dean with dark, knowing eyes. Dean swallows, can taste the war-drums of need as they run through his blood, and tells Ogou to wait, that it isn’t time yet. He feels the loa mutter more than he can hear whatever Ogou’s saying, knows that Ogou’s just as impatient as Dean is; it’s something of a trait they have in common. 

“Hungry?” Sam asks, as he’s shrugging on a button-down, doing up the buttons and rolling up the sleeves to let his vévé tattoos show. He adds, half-smiling, “I’d say we worked up an appetite.” 

Dean tries to sound disinterested as he says, “I could go for food,” but knows he’s only moderately successful when Sam’s eyes flash amusement and the loa don’t react. “Do we still have stuff downstairs? Because, dude, I am not with the leaving the house right now.” 

“The _badjikan_’ll be around,” Sam points out. “And no doubt there’ll be people stopping by.” He pauses, looks as if he’s just remembered something previously forgotten, and says, “Actually, people _will_ be stopping.” He’s about to say something, opens his mouth and takes a breath as if he’s a nanosecond away from doing so, but closes his mouth before any words slip out, exhales through his nose and rubs his forehead. 

“What?” Dean asks, stepping closer, one foot inside of a sock, the sock’s partner in his hand. 

Sam looks at him, weighing, but says, “It’s your decision, in the end. I forgot, but some of the vodouisantes from Biloxi should be arriving before dawn, I’m not sure when, exactly, but anytime between now and then. So we can either scrounge for food here and deal with everything that goes along with being the _poto mitan_ and his complement in New Orleans, or we can go out and find someplace relatively quiet and lie low until our meeting with Adolphe.” 

Dean’s surprised that Sam’s giving him the option, but the words Sam used were telling: the _poto mitan_ and his complement, meaning that they’ll be forced to deal with politics if they stay here, can just be themselves if they leave. Dean knows what he’d rather do, but he just lifts one shoulder and says, “It’s up to you, really. I don’t mind either way,” leaving Sam the option. 

“You’ll like some of the Biloxi group, I think,” Sam says, and it’s more the way Sam talked of Tony, less the way Sam talked of the Chicago group or Dennis. It’s a question as well, though, Sam leaving the decision-making up to Dean, who does appreciate the position his brother’s in, knows it can’t be easy.

They were in Biloxi before the whole thing with Marinette went down, Dean recalls. Fifteen minutes in front of a hardware store, and then they’d left, taken the back roads meandering around I-55 north to St. Louis, stayed there a week. Kate had confronted him in Biloxi, told him his desire for Sam was written all over his face and he should do something about it – he finally had in St. Louis. Strange to think that his life, defined by the road and his father’s obsessive quest for so long has, now, become fixed in his mind by cities, places and people, fixed and firm and stationary. 

“I’ll meet them eventually,” Dean asks, and, when Sam nods, says it’ll probably be tomorrow, Dean says, “Let’s wait, then. One thing at a time, and going to St Louis One at midnight, to sit around the bones of an old voodoo witch and meet with, er, spiritual enemies, is more than enough for now.” 

Sam ducks his head, but not before Dean sees the smile on his brother’s face. He’s doing something right, then. 

“There’s a place I know down Rampart,” Sam offers. “Quiet, out of the way. I don’t think anyone will bother us there.” 

“Lead on,” Dean replies. 

\--

They leave the house and walk up to Rampart, not quite skulking in the shadows but close to it. Dean wonders if the loa are helping them stay unnoticed, wishes he could think of a way to ask without upsetting Sam or upsetting the damned loa so interested in him, but he can’t, so he keeps his mouth shut and just sends his thanks out silently. 

The place they end up at is across from the park and isn’t a restaurant or a bar so much as someone’s second floor, walls left up to split the floor and small tables put in the different rooms, smells wafting up from the first-floor kitchen. There’s no sign on the door outside, nothing to say that this is a place that serves up food for more people than the ones living inside, but Sam knocks and is welcomed with a smile, sent straight up to the corner room, and Dean along with him. 

Dean glances in the other rooms as he follows Sam back to an inside corner room, sees a few people eating, picking meat off of ribs with their fingers, barbeque sauce smeared over lips and cheeks and hands. Others are sitting around plates of nachos and appetizers, laughing and talking in loud, friendly tones. 

“Looks good,” Dean finally says, sitting down across from Sam, wondering where the menu is, what kind of beer they have, if any. “What _is_ this place?” 

“It’s run by a cousin of Marianne’s,” Sam replies, leaning back in his chair, tipping it on two legs. “Invite only sort of thing. She told me to come over here once a few years ago and almost dragged me through the street by the ear. There’s no menu but it’s not like you take your life in your hands, coming here.” 

Dean nods, once, and the two of them settle into an easy silence. A man comes into the room a few minutes later, knocking once on the door, lightly, holding four beer bottles by the neck in one hand, caps off and glass dripping. “’Celine says y’all’re gonna have to live with pulled pork,” he drawls, accent thick and heavy like the air, moving only as much as the ceiling fan can push it. “On or off?” 

Dean’s confused, but Sam says, “On, for both of us,” and the man nods, leaves whistling. A sudden burst of laughter from the room next to theirs, and Dean raises his eyebrow. “Coleslaw,” Sam says. “In here, best to save on plate room.” 

“If you say so,” Dean murmurs, and Sam hears him, because Dean’s nursing a bruised shin a moment later. “Bitch.” 

“Jerk,” Sam answers.

\--

The sandwiches are huge when their waiter, Dean guesses, brings them up: one large meat platter for each of them with the sandwich in the middle, kettle-cooked potato chips filling one side, small bowls of piping hot gumbo sliding around on the other. Sam tucks in right away, cuts the sandwich in half and then picks one side up, takes a gigantic bite and lets pork and slaw fall out of the other end. Dean watches as Sam chews, fixated by the small dab of barbeque sauce on the tip of Sam’s nose, almost disappointed when Sam wipes it off with a paper towel. 

“Eat,” Sam says, and so Dean picks up the sandwich, studies it, tries to figure out the best plan of attack, then, without regard to the mess he’s bound to create, jumps in and tears a chunk off with his teeth. Sauce gets everywhere, half the sandwich falls out and onto his fingers, and while Sam’s rolling his eyes and trying not to laugh, Dean sets the sandwich down and uses the chips to scoop up what had fallen.

\--

After dinner comes another beer, then bowls of Doberge cake and ice cream, mugs of café au lait, and a platter of pralines. Dean’s never seen so much food in his life, especially not from someone’s home. 

“Cooking’s an act of love for Marianne and her family,” Sam says when Dean asks. “Marceline’s no exception. And if you think this is a lot, you should be here during Mardi Gras. She cooks for _weeks_ to get ready.”

Dean, hands on his belly, using his tongue to pick pecans out of the back of his teeth, says, “Explain this to me, Sam. You’re the voodoo king of New Orleans and everyone in the Quarter knows it? No one cares?” 

Sam takes a long sip of beer, leans back in his chair again, and traces the curve of their table’s wood grain with one finger. “They care and half the time they wish I’d leave and never come back, but it’s better if I’m here.” Dean asks why, watches as Sam’s eyes darken, cloud with something like regret, as Sam says, “People behave if they know I’m around. Voodoo scares everyone into behaving. People here have long memories, Dean, and my predecessors, the vodouisantes that’ve lived in New Orleans from the beginning, they weren’t always the best kind of people. It’s better in the Quarter; people here are used to us, moved downriver with us when the Americans started taking over everything upriver from Canal. Still, they’re careful. Why do you think we have our own room?” 

Dean tilts his head, looks around. The room’s big enough for more, has a couple other tables, but Sam’s right. They’re alone and, from the sounds of it, the other rooms are damned crowded. “But they welcomed you in,” Dean says. “Stephen, Rose, Marianne: none of them are vodouisantes, but they _love_ you, Sam.” 

“They know me,” Sam says, “but they were just as careful in the beginning. Better to catch flies with honey, better to keep the man all the vodouisantes bow to on your good side, better to be safe than sorry.” Sam pauses, adds, “I’m sorry for that, too, you know. People everywhere, all across the States, will judge you the instant they find out you’re involved. Some’ll think Hollywood, some will think zombies, some people will want to know everything, like it’s a cult they can join.”

“Hey,” Dean shrugs. “Like I’ve ever cared what people think of me. And, dude, come on. Like we’ve ever told _strangers_ what we do. You think I’m gonna start now? Sometimes I wonder if we dropped you on your head one too many times when you were a kid.” 

Sam snorts, then laughs, and the sound soon drives other noises away, like everyone else eating has fallen silent at the sound of Sam’s amusement, as if it holds power, nothing good for them. Dean wants to roll his eyes, but he just checks his watch and says, “We should go. Do we leave money?” 

“Not here,” Sam says, standing up, stretching. “Money makes Marceline jittery. We’ll send her something later, food or flowers or a new cookbook.” 

“What about a _gris-gris_?” Dean asks, lightly, though he’s watching Sam carefully. “Or we could always have someone make up a mojo bag.” 

Sam’s lips thin, and he shakes his head, trails his fingers across the edge of the table as he walks towards the door. “We’ll be late,” he says. 

Dean follows, waves his thanks to the guy who acted as their waiter, and knocks his shoulder against Sam’s when they’re walking back in the direction of Canal. “It would really freak them out that much?” 

“It’s better to not invite trouble,” Sam says. 

Yeah, Dean gets that. “Which doesn’t explain why, on the point of sounding like a broken record, we’re hanging out in a cemetery at midnight. Dude.” 

Sam laughs, sounds surprised, and runs like a madman across Rampart when they get to St. Louis. 

\--

There’s been a lot of argument over the years whether the bones inside of the Glapion family crypt are really Marie Laveau’s. Dean’s never quite sure who to believe, the voodoo-obsessed tourists who hang out in Number One and leave flowers and offerings at the crypt or the hunters who say that Laveau’s followers burned her and ate the ashes, cooked into bread, in order to take some of her power into themselves. It’s only as he’s following Sam down Basin, toward the cemetery, that he realises he’s never heard any of the vodouisantes talk about her resting place before. 

They walk around to the side, in full view of the Iberville projects, then vault a crumbling section of the wall near the back. Dean’s expecting Sam to lead him to the famous Glapion crypt, but instead he leads Dean to the second alley from the front and a platform crypt with the name ‘Gardette’ on one side, the name ‘Roy’ on another. 

“This isn’t the Glapion crypt,” Dean says, staring at the crypt, clearing expecting an explanation from Sam. 

“_La reinette_ is buried in the Glapion crypt,” Sam replies, crouching, one hand on the ground, the other touching the cold stone of the crypt. At Dean’s noise of incomprehension, Sam says, “Marie’s daughter. This one here, this is where Marie was interred, after they burned her to ashes.” Dean frowns, can’t make the connection. He asks, and Sam stands up, brushes dirt and cement dust from his hands. “Marie was a Creole who preferred every other language to English. We called her the Queen, _Reine_ Marie, and her daughter was the little queen. When Marie died, her daughter and her followers placed her into this tomb. _Roi_, to hold _la Reine_.” Sam trails off, voice giving way to something like reverence, and, yeah, Dean understands. He even understands the deception and thinks those earlier vodouisantes must have been way more intelligent than the ones these days. 

“What does that mean, _roi_?” he asks and then hazards a guess. “King?” 

Someone behind them says, “Because no one man was enough to match her in life.” Dean turns around, sees Adolphe, alone and holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. “She was a great woman. You’re new to Sam’s group, aren’t you. Can I tempt you away?” 

Dean glances at Sam, sees Sam hiding a smile, looks back at Adolphe. “Sorry,” he replies, shrugging. “Sam’s the _poto mitan_. And from what he’s said about _sosyetes_, for that fact alone, I wouldn’t fit in.” 

Adolphe smiles, ducks his head and looks up at Sam from lowered eyelashes. “And the _poto mitan_ won’t rescind the ban on loa riding the _sosyetes_?”

Dean looks at Sam, eyes wide now, startled, doubly so when Sam just laughs. “You know I’m not ready to do that, not yet. Let me deal with the current vodouisantes before I go messing around with the dead ones.” 

“Had to say I tried,” Adolphe says, and he doesn’t seem upset at all, more resigned under the amused teasing. “You know the others will ask.” He stops there, just gazes at Sam, like he’s trying to memorise Sam’s face, that or search for something under the mask that Sam’s currently wearing, and it’s not until Adolphe’s eyes widen that Dean thinks something might be going wrong. “You’re really serious about this,” he says, this time much more intently. “You’re. You know whose names are on this, don’t you?” he asks, holding up the piece of paper. 

“I pray to Bondye I’m wrong,” Sam says, and he settles his stance, feet spread slightly, shoulders low and ready. It looks like he’s getting ready for a fight, but Dean knows -- _knows_ \-- that Adolphe isn’t a threat to them. “But whether I am or not, yes, I’m really serious about this.” 

Dean looks between the two of them, both of them standing still, poised as if on the brink of a battlefield, and asks, “What?” because he’s obviously missing something. 

Sam’s eyes flick to Dean, but Sam doesn’t say anything. Adolphe doesn’t even act like he heard Dean, much less like he’s going to answer. Instead, he says to Sam, “You know she won’t like this.” Dean, as if he’s watching a tennis match, looks at Sam, sees the muscles in his brother’s jaw clench. “If you do this, she’ll hate you, Sam.” 

Much more casually than Sam’s stance would let on, Sam says, “She’s already moved past acting the scorned lover, Adolphe. During the binding, she was quite clear on what she wants to do the instant she’s free. Eating my entrails while I was still alive ranked quite highly, if I recall, as did cutting off my dick and choking me to death with it.” 

Dean gets, then, at that moment, that they’re talking about Marinette. He steps between them, holds out one hand for Adolphe to stop whatever he was about to say, puts the other palm on Sam’s chest, and says, “Stop, Sam. Just stop. Stop and. Fuck’s sake, serious about what? This is about getting the boxes back and dealing with Dennis. What the hell’s going on?” 

“Marinette doesn’t have horses, not since the _poto mitan_ bound her from riding anyone.” Adolphe’s voice is quiet, the words quiet, nothing echoing off the crypts. Dean feels close and closed in, jumps when a siren goes off, police car wailing down Canal. 

“But the _sosyete_ can’t be ridden,” Dean says, eyes narrowing. “They can just communicate with the loa. I know that.” 

Sam exhales, and says, “Midnight’s _konesan_. For all that he wanted to twist the loa and use them to his advantage, he was a very intelligent _houngon_. He found a way to, it’s not riding, exactly, more like a telepathic binding; there’s no sharing of the physical body, just the mind. The boxes that are gone hold pieces of this knowledge.” He pauses, then says, voice almost strangled, “It’s the only way to get around a Petro banishment. The only way to get around _me_.” 

Dean’s heart sinks. “You were lying.” Sam doesn’t meet his eyes. “You were lying to me tonight, when we were at Stephen’s. Sam. How long have you know that this is what Dennis was planning? Why didn’t Ogou know?” Dean suddenly feels ill, has to ask, “Or did he, but he didn’t tell me?” Lightning like knives runs through his body, and he gets it, tells the loa to shut up, he believes that Ogou didn’t know. “Did the _loa_ even know? _Sam_,” he growls, when his brother still isn’t looking at him. 

“Dean,” Adolphe says, but Dean turns and looks at him, snarls. Adolphe steps back, eyes wide, wild like a frightened rabbit. 

War-drums pound in Dean’s head, the beginnings of a quest for revenge, the hunt to spill blood, warm and red, into the air. He turns to face Sam straight-on, pushes Sam backwards, pins his brother against the side of the crypt. “You _lied_ to me, Sam,” he says, voice sharp, a weapon all of its own. “What happened to you and me, together, always? What happened to you loving me? Or was that just another lie?” 

That gets Sam’s attention. His eyes snap to Dean’s, and Dean can see, through the red haze clouding his vision, through the sick feeling in the pit of his belly, that Sam’s furious at that accusation. Sam’s arms come up, push at Dean’s, and though Dean gives that, he steps forward, their bodies aligned, close to touching. “Was it a lie, Sam?” he asks, again, and this time his voice breaks. 

“Not a lie,” Sam whispers. One hand lifts to Dean’s cheek, caresses before it cups the curve of Dean’s jaw. “I love you.” 

“Not as much as you love her,” Dean says, quietly. Sam flinches, turns inward, looks away. 

Adolphe, behind them, clears his throat. “It’s nothing he can help, Dean. You’ve felt Marinette’s touch. For you, it’s come to represent what, fear? Hatred? Vengeance? That’s what you were doing when she first rode you, yes? Killing? Something awful, something wicked and evil? For Sam, for others before him who were her willing horses, her touch is, is love. They _invited_ her; they were open to her and she used that -- and them -- just as much as she used you. Marinette is a cruel loa and she binds her horses to her in the cruellest of bridles. Your hatred is just as much of a weakness as Sam’s love. You still hate her and Sam still loves her. You will always hate her and he will always love her.” 

“How do you know?” Dean asks, leaning closer to Sam, close enough to touch though he doesn’t. “You’ve never been ridden. You’ve never _felt_ her inside of you. You’ve never felt any of the loa.” 

Adolphe’s silent for a long moment, long enough for Dean to wonder if the man actually left, footsteps as quiet as they had been entering the cemetery. “One day I hope to,” he finally says. “But when that day comes, I pray to _le gran met_ that Marinette is still bound up and forbidden from riding any horse. _Poto mitan_, I’ll leave you the list. If you have need of us, call us. Papa Midnight’s _sosyete_ will aid you in this, though it mean the end of his _konesan_.” 

Dean does turn around at that, looks, but can’t see Adolphe anywhere. The piece of paper is on the ground, motionless. He looks back at Sam, steps back and reaches for the paper, giving his brother room. “What are you going to do with the boxes when you get them back?” he asks, unwilling to look at Sam, watch Sam lie to him again. 

“Bondye grant me the strength to burn them,” Sam says, low enough that Dean almost thinks he imagined the answer. 

He can’t believe it, stares at Sam with his mouth open, gaping. “What?” he asks, and this time he’s the one who sounds shocked. “_Burn_ them? Burn a _houngon_’s _konesan_?” 

Sam looks mulish, determined, though there’s a terrified sheen to his eyes, underneath and beyond the loa. “She’s locked up. She’ll stay that way until I can trust she’ll behave. Anything else circumvents my authority and I won’t allow that. I’m going to light a bonfire and burn every last box. It was insanity to think I could keep them and go through them at my leisure. I regret the loss of Midnight’s knowledge, but I can’t trust anyone to hold those boxes and not use them.”

“Even me?” Dean asks, before he can stop the words. He can’t honestly believe that Sam’s known about this the whole time, even before Chicago, and hasn’t told him. To be fair, he never asked what exactly was in Midnight’s boxes, never asked what they might be used to do, but still. 

A long pause, and then Sam looks at him, straight into his eyes, and asks, “Do you want them, Dean? If you want them, you can have them. All you have to do is tell me.” 

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. “I want them,” he says. He sees the way Sam’s shoulders slump, sees the hollowed out resignation in his brother’s eyes, the momentary quirk to Sam’s lips, grimace and the acknowledgment of a hit. 

“Then they’re yours.”


	6. Chapter 6

They don’t talk after that. Dean gives the piece of paper to Sam, who opens it, studies it, then looks up. Sam takes a deep breath, shoves the paper into a back pocket, and stares straight ahead as he walks toward the front of the cemetery. The gate’s locked, Dean doesn’t know what Sam’s thinking, but when Sam reaches the gate, he simply taps on the lock and the door swings open. Dean shivers, follows Sam out, keeps his mouth shut. 

They walk to the house on Dauphine and, before Sam can turn the handle, the door opens. Dean raises an eyebrow as the woman who opened the door holds out her hands, palms up. 

“_Poto mitan_,” she says, and kisses Sam’s knuckles when he covers her hands with his. She sinks into a half-curtsey as Sam kisses her forehead, and when they’re both done, she straightens up and says, “The others are installed in the usual places. The _badjikan_ said there was room here but I didn’t want to impose without asking.” 

She hasn’t so much as glanced at Dean, but her eyes flick over to take him in after Sam says, “Plenty of room. Dean and I are sharing a bed. Are you turning in, Pen, or do you have time to run an errand with me?” 

“I’m at your disposal, Sam,” she replies, instantly, and moves out of the doorway. “Is Ogou’s _cheval_ joining us?” 

“No,” Sam says. “He isn’t.” 

Dean watches, frozen to the spot, as Sam walks away, the woman -- Pen, maybe the Penny that Sam mentioned earlier -- scurrying to catch up. 

“Where he going?” the _badjikan_ asks. Dean looks over, sees the man filling the doorway. “And why ain’t you going with him?” 

“He lied to me.” Dean takes one step after Sam, but then Sam and Pen turn a corner, go out of sight. Dean stops, feels Sam’s absence like a blow to the chest; Ogou feels displeased, angry, even, and Dean wonders if the loa’s pissed off at him or at Sam. “He knew what was going on with those boxes the whole time and he never told me.” 

The _badjikan_ snorts, and at Dean’s look, says, “He ain’t gotta tell you a thing, boyo. You forgetting he’s your _poto mitan_. But you ever think he’s doing this to protect you? You can’t even stand to hear anyone say her name; what you think you would’ve done, you know what he was coming down here to do?”

In this, at least, the _badjikan_ has a point. He would’ve made Sam stay away, wouldn’t have let Sam come within three states of New Orleans. Everything he’s said since they arrived, even before, it’s been hurting Sam even when Sam didn’t let on. If Adolphe was right, that Marinette really has her hooks into Sam that deep, Dean’s amazed Sam never said anything every time Dean said he hated her, every time Dean bared his teeth at the mere mention of her name. Earlier, above Stephen’s gallery, when Dean said that Marinette was Sam’s weakness -- he never would have, if he’d known how true that is. He can’t believe Sam didn’t say the same thing back at him; it’s true enough. 

It rankles that Sam doesn’t have to tell him a thing, because Sam’s his little brother, but the _badjikan_’s right about that, too. If Dean accepts Sam as his _poto mitan_, and he has, then he has to accept that Sam doesn’t need to share everything about vodou and his responsibilities with Dean. Doesn’t need to, but he’d like for Sam to _want_ to. 

Ogou wants to protect Danny, loves tormenting Sam, and Dean’s pretty much the same way in reverse. He doesn’t want any harm to come to his brother or the loa riding him, thinks that maybe Ogou’s a little too willing to forget about Danny’s own talents of self-preservation, but if that’s the case with the loa, Dean has the opposite problem in regards to Sam. Sam’s been dealing with vodou and its adherents for three years now. Dean’s still overcoming his own prejudices, his own history. 

“You thinking that hard, you better have something to eat,” the _badjikan_ says, jerking Dean out of his train of thought. “Something sweet, to calm your rider down, and something heavy, to help you sleep. Get in the kitchen, boyo. _Poto mitan_’ll be back when he done, and Loko’s _cheval_ along with ‘im.” 

Loko. The name’s familiar but Dean can’t place it as he walk inside, heads for the kitchen in something of a daze. Sam left him. Sam _left_ him. 

\--

The _badjikan_ feeds Dean spiced coffee spiked with rum and a bowlful of week-old pound cake soaked in milk, spoonfuls of sugar spread on top. He was right, it helps, and Dean goes up to the bedroom in less of a daze, less panicked and lonely and needing Sam, now just tired, mind and feet both aching. He strips down to his underwear, pulls the comforter down to the foot of the bed, slips under the sheet. 

\--

He wakes up hours later, when the sun’s starting to turn the sky outside the window shades of red, colours that remind Dean of Danny. He sits up, looks around, and there’s just enough light in the room to know that Sam’s not there. He’s out of the bed, halfway across the room, when his eyes land on a pile of boxes stacked against the wall. Dean stops so suddenly he almost loses his balance, but turns and goes to run his fingers over each of the boxes. They’re all made out of light wood, symbols and runes carved into each panel, and touching them makes Dean feel sick. 

They’re Midnight’s boxes, have to be. Sam must’ve gone out last night and collected as many as he could, brought them back here and left them for Dean. Why he didn’t stay, Dean doesn’t know, but then his eyes catch sight of a scribbled note stuck to the topmost box with a piece of scotch tape. 

_Dean -- Penny and I are meeting with several of the other Rada over breakfast. We’re at Café du Monde if you feel like joining us._

Dean tears the note into pieces, lets the scraps float to the floor. He goes to the bathroom, to clean up and dress, and does so as fast as he can, intent on getting to the café. Sam, meeting with Rada horses, alone, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

\--

Sunrise in the French Quarter; this is a part of the city that sleeps during the daylight, so there are very few people out and about this time of day. It’s strange to jog past Bourbon, see the bars and restaurants closed, a street sweeper down near the Canal end, stranger still to see people lining at Brennan’s for breakfast. 

Dean jogs all the way to Café du Monde, grateful it’s still early and that the worst of the humidity hasn’t swamped inland from the river yet. It’s still plenty hot, though, and he’s sweating by the time he gets to Decatur, turns towards the café. He can’t see Sam, not at first, not until he gets under the awning, near the carry-out counter. Sam’s in the back corner at a table with six other people, coffee cups and half-empty plates of beignets covering the table. As Dean gets closer, he sees that Sam looks tired and wonders if his brother got any sleep at all last night. 

Sam looks up as Dean approaches the table and Dean feels something in him break when Sam’s eyes flash wariness, hurt, sadness. Still, Sam scoots over, pulls a chair over from the closest table, and pushes a cup of coffee in front of the empty space. 

“This is Dean,” Sam says as Dean sits down, glancing around the table. “Dean, these are the Rada _konfians kays_ of Biloxi, Baton Rouge, Memphis, St. Louis, Detroit, and Cincinnati.” As Sam names off each city, a different person nods, Penny first, the others following. “I asked them all to come down and help me go through the New Orleans Rada after our meeting with Dennis. They’ll sit in judgment on the vodouisantes, all of them, cull out the unworthy and then pick a successor out of whoever’s left.” 

“They know you’re getting ready to stop Dennis,” Dean asks. At Sam’s nod, Dean asks, quietly, “Do they know why?” 

Sam’s tired look seems deeper, now that Dean’s sitting next to his brother, tired the way Sam looked after Mississippi. Dean glances down, sees that the vévés on Sam’s arms are inflamed. They had been yesterday but now they look close to breaking open and bleeding; Dean can’t see Sam’s chest or back through the button-down Sam’s wearing but he’s willing to bet some of those tattoos have already split open and scabbed over. What he can’t figure out is why. 

“Yes,” Sam replies, simple and direct. “We’ve already been over that. We were just discussing when and where to hold the judgment.” 

The man next to Penny leans forward, smelling of the sea; his face is tanned and his hair is wind-blown. “I still say we should use the Rada gathering place here. The symbolism alone would be good.” 

A different man, across the table from Dean, shakes his head. “Somewhere new. We don’t want to associate ourselves with Dennis and what she’s done.” 

Penny sits back in her chair, taps one fingernail against the table. She looks at Dean as she says, “Where do you think, Dean? Where would Ogou’s horse suggest we winnow out the worthy?” 

Dean holds Penny’s gaze before looking around the table at the others. “I think we should do it wherever Sam thinks we should do it.” He glances at Sam, asks, “Where do you think?” 

One of the others speaks up first, says, “The _poto mitan_ thinks the New Orleans Rada as a whole should be dealt with in the same way he dealt with the Chicago vodouisantes.” It’s clear from the guy’s tone of voice that he doesn’t quite approve. “Why punish all of them, though, when it’s just the leader who’s been causing _dezòd_?” 

“Because none of them stopped her,” Dean says, immediately. “They should’ve known she was doing something wrong and not one of them talked to anyone else about it.” 

“He’s right,” Penny says. Two of the others nod, but the other three scowl, clearly disagreeing. “Regardless, the _poto mitan_ has agreed that we’ll sit in judgment and so we will. We only have need to decide when and where, and as none of us can agree, we’ll have to abide by the _poto mitan_’s judgment. So. Sam. Where?” 

Sam looks at the table, takes a sip of his café au lait. “If we must, then we’ll do it at the cathedral,” he says. Dean blinks in surprise, sees a couple of the others do the same. Penny, though, just hides her smile behind a beignet. Someone asks, incredulous, and Sam says it again. “We’ll have it at the cathedral. I’ll talk to the father. He won’t mind.” 

“You’re still on good terms with Monseigneur Veracruz, then?” the _konfians kay_ of Detroit asks. “That’s helpful.” 

A noncommittal noise from both Sam and Penny, and Dean looks around the table, at everyone sitting and drinking café au lait. There are undercurrents here that Dean can’t identify but he knows they exist. Judging from the lightning strikes at the block, Ogou’s picking them up as well. 

\--

Dean sits back in his chair and listens as the _konfians kays_ discuss how this judgment thing is going to work. It sounds like a trial, as if they’ll be gathering all of the New Orleans Rada, sitting them in the cathedral, and then bringing them up to the front one by one, like these six _konfians kays_ are capable of playing out judge, jury, and executioner. Dean honestly doesn’t think anyone’s capable, unless that someone is Sam, but Sam already made his views clear. 

“What is it?” Penny asks, after one of the others says something stupid and Dean’s snorted. “You look as if you have something to say, Dean.” 

“It’s just, look,” Dean starts to say, before glancing at Sam. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but Sam’s eyes dip just before Sam’s head inclines the slightest bit. Buoyed by the permission, by the understanding he sees in Sam’s eyes, Dean sits up straighter and says, “Look, Sam already said what he’d like to do to them all. Why are we even having this discussion? He’s the _poto mitan_, after all.” 

Penny leans back, gestures as if to say that Dean’s made the argument she would’ve liked to. The other five leaders exchange looks, and one of them tentatively says, “That might work for the Petro, but.” 

Dean cuts the guy off with a headshake. “Petro, Rada, it doesn’t matter. He’s the _poto mitan_. Since when did we start thinking he only heads up one half of the vodouisantes?” The guy doesn’t say anything, just ducks his head, and Dean starts to get really, seriously, completely furious. “Because he’s a Petro trinity, is that it? You think he’s not looking out for all of you? Well? _Well_?” 

“It’s part of the reason,” Penny says, but she concurs so mildly that Dean can’t be angry with her. “Some of the Rada would like to believe that we’re more concerned with justice than our Petro brothers and sisters. Some of us would even like to think we’re better. In truth, we’re just as divisive, perhaps more so.” 

Dean stares at her; she takes it, without flinching, without shifting, so he asks, “What do you think?” 

One of the others speaks up, someone who’s kept his mouth shut, who Dean thinks is the Rada from St. Louis. “She thinks as I do. The _poto mitan_ wishes to separate horses from riders, to make a point. Sam is the _poto mitan_ and, ultimately, he’s the one who holds our laws and makes them, who serves as the living bridge of the loa. His word is law and we’ll obey.” 

“So, what, the rest of you want to vote?” Dean asks, disgusted. This is why he’s thankful for the way his father raised him: he hates politics, always has, hates the cliques and the in-fighting. He never had to deal with it at school, sucked at it when he’s had to on hunts. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Sam navigated the slopes better than Dean ever did, shouldn’t surprise him to look at Sam and see that his brother’s not moving, just watching, and that the loa are moving faster than ever in his eyes. “This wasn’t a fucking democracy the last time I looked. Is it now, Sam?” 

Sam looks at him, simply holds his gaze, and Dean’s inwardly willing his brother to remember their talk yesterday morning, over breakfast in the courtyard. Dean had threatened to rein them in if Sam wouldn’t, so today, right now, he’s making his first move in that direction. 

Either Sam remembers or something’s showing in Dean’s eyes because the loa still, freeze, as Sam says, “No, it isn’t.” Three of the Rada horses shiver at Sam’s words, the emotions behind them, but three of them, Penny included, get drugged smiles on their faces, something in Sam’s tone soothing them, promising them something. 

“This has never been a democracy,” Sam goes on. “People act like it because there hasn’t been a _poto mitan_ in close to three decades.” He stands, pushes his chair back. Dean follows suit a split-second later, Penny and the other two a moment behind him. “_Zo reglemen_ allows me the decision. The New Orleans Rada will be separated from their riders just as soon as their _konfians kay_ has been removed. They’ll have to prove, like the Chicago group, that they deserve the right to petition Legba Atibon on their own. Dennis will be out by midnight. I expect all of you to act as you are bound to act by the virtue and weight of your positions.” 

\--

Sam stalks away, towards the cathedral. Dean frowns, has to scurry to keep up, narrowly misses getting hit by a car as he runs across Decatur. Penny and two of the others are following him, but Dean’s intent on Sam. It’s not until they’re halfway through Jackson Square that Dean manages to catch Sam, lays a hand on his arm and pulls him around. 

“Dude,” he says, bending over and catching his breath once he’s made sure that Sam’s stopping. “You need to slow down. What was that, a race to see who can get to Bourbon Street the fastest?” 

Sam turns around and Dean swallows when he sees his brother’s face. The loa are swarming, there have to be half a dozen of them, at least, and they’re all moving. As his glance drops, Dean sees that the vévés on Sam’s forearms, already inflamed, are starting to crack along the lines of ink, drops of blood welling up in the curls and flourishes. 

Behind him, Penny whispers a prayer, one of the others swears under his breath. Dean steps closer, reaches out and traces his fingertips over Sam’s cheek. Sam doesn’t move at all, like he can’t even feel it. “Sam?” Dean asks, whisper-soft. “Sam, talk to me.” 

Sam’s eyes move in hitching degrees until they’re locked onto Dean’s. Dean shivers, that fear from yesterday coming back, for whatever Sam’s going through -- or, more likely, whatever Sam’s _putting_ himself through. 

Without thinking, Dean steps forward, pulls Sam close, kisses him. Sam’s unresponsive, distant and numb, but Dean doesn’t stop, just digs his nails into Sam’s hips, licks his tongue across Sam’s lips. When even that doesn’t work, Dean growls, lifts one hand and rips his nails across Sam’s neck, tearing off the scabs. Sam hisses, this time Dean’s tongue delves inside of Sam’s mouth, taking and plundering, triumphs of war, spoils of victory. 

Ogou, behind Ti-Jean’s block, lets out a howl of conquest. Danny must’ve heard, had to have heard, because Sam moves at the noise, turns boneless and liquid in Dean’s grasp. 

Dean keeps kissing but tones it down now that he has Sam back, now that he wants answers. “Hey,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to Sam’s, lips so close that they’re sharing breath. “What’s going on in that freakish head of yours, Sam?” He pauses, thinks about what he’s just done and what he’s just said, and adds, “And how come every time we have amazingly hot sex, we get in a fight five minutes later?” 

Sam laughs, just a slight noise but it’s enough to let Dean step back without worrying that Sam’ll slide into that worrying distance again. “Maybe because you’re Ogou’s _cheval_ and I’m Danny’s,” he says, eyes sliding from Dean’s to the group of three behind Dean. 

“I found the boxes,” Dean says, quiet enough in the noise of Jackson Square to know that only Sam will hear him. Sam’s gaze fixes on Dean’s face again. “I know you trust me. You didn’t have to get them.” 

“You asked for them,” Sam replies, “and I offered.” He stops there, studies Dean, and finally asks, “The _badjikan_?” 

Dean grins, knowing exactly what Sam’s asking: who talked to him, got him to listen, made him understand the way things are and have been. Things can change, though, and if the bruised hope in Sam’s eyes is any indication, Dean’s brother wants change as much as Dean does. “Yeah. You gonna be okay?” Before Sam can answer, Dean adds, “I don’t. Sam, I know you don’t _need_ to. But if you want to. I just. You know?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, slight smile disturbing the calm expression, soft touch to his voice. “I know.” 

It feels good to not need words, to understand Sam so completely and be understood in turn, to be so in tune with another person. It feels _right_. Judging by the way Ogou’s humming in pleasure, by the way Danny’s coiling in Sam’s eyes, the loa agree. Sam’s smile turns secret, coy, meant just for Dean; Dean appreciates it, wishes they were somewhere less public so that he could demonstrate to Sam just how much. 

They stand there, looking at each other, until Penny clears her throat and pipes up. “Not that I want to upset you, Sam, but you did bring up Monseigneur Veracruz. You should go and speak with him before one of the others does.” 

Sam sighs, ducks his head, and moves forward to stand next to Dean. Dean turns to face the three Rada horses who’ve followed him, presses close to Sam. “Penny, St. Louis, and Detroit, right?” Sam knocks his elbow into Dean, and Dean mutters, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll behave. Nice to know names, though. And why do you need to go talk to a priest?” 

“Dennis is an influential person in New Orleans,” Sam says. “She’s an attorney, from a wealthy family, and has her fingers in every aspect of the city’s upper crust. We’ll need to warn people what we’re doing. Best place to start is the Monseigneur. He doesn’t officially approve of us, but he has a soft spot for the syncretic religions. He’ll spread the word. I need to go alone though.” 

Dean starts to protest, but the guy from Detroit speaks up. “Dean, Monseigneur Veracruz will only speak to Sam. If anyone goes with him, hm. It’s never gone well in the past.” He looks at Penny, at the other man, and offers, “You can come with us, if you’d like.” 

\--

Dean doesn’t like it, but he lets Sam go into St Louis Cathedral by himself, a row of three Rada vodouisantes standing behind Dean, watching as well. As tall as his brother is, Sam seems dwarfed by the building; it seems as though Sam’s swallowed by the doors when he walks inside and disappears out of sight. 

“If it helps, the cornerstone of this Cathedral was laid in 1789,” Detroit says. Dean frowns, turning to look at him, question in his glance. “The building was finished in 1794. _Reine_ Marie’s father was one of the builders. There’s a stone inside, under the altar, carved with Damballah’s vévé. She was baptised here, confirmed here, took her first communion here, married here. The Cathedral might be the seat of the Catholic presence in this town, but it’s touched by _la Reine_ as well.” 

Oddly enough, that does make Dean feel better. He takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose, and then turns to the three Rada, cocksure grin on his face. “So, what’s the plan, guys?” 

Penny’s smile, oddly enough, looks as bloodthirsty as a Petro. “We’re going to gather the people we trusted enough to bring down here and we’re going to stalk Dennis. We want her off-balance when the _poto mitan_ summons her later.” 

Dean’s grin grows wider. Detroit looks uneasy but St. Louis and Penny, head of the Biloxi Rada, both echo the expression. 

\--

Dennis works at a firm on Poydras Street, a couple blocks away from Lafayette Square. On the streetcar ride to Canal, Dean finds out that Detroit’s _konfians kay_ is really Nick and St. Louis’ is Philippe, though he prefers Phil. They’re not bad, not for vodouisantes, but they’re wary of Dean. Penny, on the other hand, seems to love Dean’s effect on Sam, seems to think that the way Dean’s presence is changing things is absolutely hysterical. 

They walk past Harrah’s, turn up Poydras, and go into a small café across the street from the firm where Dennis works. Nick and Phil take out cell phones, start texting people, but Penny’s eyes are glued onto the front door of the law firm, attention focused completely. 

“You don’t like her?” Dean asks Penny, taking a wild stab in the dark. 

“Wish I was ridden by Ogou,” Penny says, eyes flicking to Dean for a split-second. “Then at least I’d have an excuse for hacking her into pieces. Look, you’re new to all of this, Bondye knows Sam never mentioned you in the context of vodou before, but if you leave Dennis alive, you’re doing your _poto mitan_ a disservice.” 

Dean tilts his head, studies Penny. He sees Nick look up at them, turn his attention back to his cell-phone in double time, and notices Phil’s fingers pause over the keypad, clearly listening as well. “You want me to kill her,” he says, slow, making sure he understands completely. “Even though she’s one of you and the most influential Rada vodouisante in the country.” 

Penny nods, not looking at Dean. “I want you to kill her. I want you to make sure it takes a long time, and that it hurts, and that she screams. For what she’s done to us -- to Sam, to the vodouisantes, to the loa -- I want her to suffer, Dean.” 

Ogou, strangely quiet, sends a lightning-sharp hit of approval through Dean’s bloodstream. 

\--

Dean’s cell-phone rings half an hour later. He checks the caller ID, swears under his breath, and says, “Hey, Dad,” when he answers. “Everything okay?” 

John snorts, and Dean feels something inside of him loosen; despite everything he’s going through, despite how much as he’s grown up and grown apart, become something very entwined and wrapped up with Sam, hearing his father makes him relax. John’s always known what to do, always had a plan of action, and Dean misses that as much as he envies it now. 

“Hunting a demon, you know how it goes,” John says. “Nothing but tracking down patterns; I doubt anything will happen for a good three months. I’ve got some people working on programs to catch things but I’ll need to gather data first. How ‘bout you, you’re still alive? Sam all right?” 

Without any regard for Penny or the other two, not to mention the people who’ve come in and nodded at the _konfians kays_ before ordering coffee and settling near windows, or those who are sitting outside, walking back and forth, Dean says, “It’s a mess down here, completely fucked. We’re getting a handle on it though. After tonight, things should settle down.” 

John hums as if he’s thinking about that and Dean can hear clacking on the other end; either his father’s typing on a computer, which almost hurts to think about, or he’s cleaning guns. “What’s happening tonight?” John asks. 

Dean isn’t fooled by the mild tone, not one bit, so it’s with a bit of relief that he suddenly sees Sam walking towards the café, a man at his elbow. Dean frowns, squints, and just barely makes out the collar. 

“Monseigneur Veracruz,” Penny whispers, and Nick’s head snaps up, eyes scanning the street. 

“Hey, Dad, gotta go,” Dean says. “Father’s here.” 

John asks, again, “What’s happening tonight?” but Dean hangs up on his father without a second thought as Sam and the priest walk inside. 

Sam tilts his head and Dean stands up immediately, moving away from the three Rada to the door and Sam. “Dean, this is Pierre. Pierre, my _solèy_, Dean.” Dean frowns at the word, but the Monseigneur simply raises an eyebrow and nods in greeting. “Pen’s over there, would you fill her in?” Sam goes on to ask, and the priest agrees, moves past the two Winchesters. 

“What does _that_ mean?” Dean asks, tired of all the unfamiliar words and phrases, slightly overwhelmed at how many people Sam knows. 

“It’s something Pierre and I were talking about earlier,” Sam replies, which is the least helpful answer Dean’s ever gotten to a question. “You all right?” 

Dean nods, then says, barely louder than a murmur, “Dad called. He’s doing fine, bitching about the research.” 

Sam grins, ducks his head, then says, “Let’s get out of here. Okay?” 

\--

They walk down to Riverfront Park, lean against the railing and watch the ferry cross from this side of the river over to Algiers. There’s a breeze coming off the Mississippi but it’s not much, struggling in the morning heat, and a sparkle of red and blue lights up on the US-90 bridge catches Dean’s attention -- some traffic cop pulling over a speeder, most likely. 

“I’ve asked the _badjikan_ to call Dennis,” Sam says, once they’ve stood in silence for a few minutes. “She’ll stop by tonight, after work, and we’ll get this taken care of.” 

The same length of silence and Dean says, “Penny wants me to kill her. Can’t say I’d mind.” There’s no use being anything but honest; Dean hates Dennis’ guts and he’s killed vodouisantes before. Granted, it was before Sam brought him into the fold and he regrets it now, knowing that the _asogwe_, that the _houngons_ and _mambos_, weren’t the enemy, not really, not when there are people like Dennis in the faith. 

“Hopefully it won’t come down to that,” is all Sam says. 

Dean can hear the words underneath the statement, though. He’s not sure how he feels about having Sam’s conditional approval. It’s still _murder_. 

More silence, a burst of laughter from a group of tourists behind them, pointing out the river as if they’ve never seen water before, possibly drunk even at this time of day. They both wait for them to leave, and then Sam looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry, y’know.” Dean asks why, for what, and Sam says, “The fighting. I. It’s not easy, sometimes, trying to balance things. You’re still so new to this. I don’t want to bombard you with things but being who you are, you need to know, and I. I haven’t done a very good job.”

“Dude, whatever. Just tell me now,” Dean says, leaning closer to Sam, until their bodies are touching, shoulders to arms to hips. 

“I want Ogou, Dean,” Sam says, plain and simple. “And Danny wants someone that she loves. She had Marinette for so long, and Ogou was always there, but now Marinette’s gone and Ogou’s decided you’re the only one he’s riding.” 

Dean exhales, stares across the river. “But since I haven’t asked him in, he’s not riding anyone. Danny misses him?” 

Sam takes a deep breath, looks up. “She’s being petty about it, but yes. In essence. Having sex with you is, it’s amazing. But it reminds Danny what she’s missing and she’s the first rider of the _poto mitan_; because of what I am, I can’t block her out entirely. She gets upset, I do as well, and we both take it out on you. I’ve no excuse, Dean. I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you, don’t want to make you feel like you have to do anything, Bondye knows you deserve a break from things like that.” 

“I want to know what I have to do,” Dean says. He stops there, pushes himself up from the railing, turns around to face the city and runs a hand over his face. He should feel something _more_ right now, but it feels right, feels like a decision too long coming. “Before I ask a damned loa to ride me, I want to know everything. What to expect, what to do, how I can get him out if I freak.” 

Sam moves as well, moves to stand in front of Dean. His eyes are filled with that same desperate longing and hope that Dean’s been seeing ever since their drive to St. Louis, and Dean finally understands: Sam and Danny both yearn with everything in them for someone else to complete them, to fill them and finish them. For a while, Marinette was enough, then Ogou in other bodies, but now that Sam’s in love with Dean, nothing else will do. 

Dean wonders how much it took Sam to admit that, how much courage to finally say, to both of them, that Dean was what Sam wanted, and he realises that his brother’s grown up over the past three years, grown up past Dean. He tells Ogou, restless behind the block, that he’ll make up the difference, prove he deserves the faith Sam has in him, and Ogou mutters but stills. 

He reaches up, brings Sam’s head down, and kisses his brother as a freighter passes behind them, horn blowing, heading south.

\--

They go back to the house on Dauphine, take a taxi even though they’re not more than a brisk ten minute walk away. The driver lets them off right in front of the door, turns around and winks, tells them the ride’s on him, and honks once he’s driving away. The _badjikan_ takes one look at them and grins, hands in the air as he walks away, whistling. 

Sam leads Dean back to the courtyard, filled with statues. He tells Dean to stand in the middle, then goes ‘round and names each loa. The crawling serpentine loa is Damballah, Dean should’ve known that one, and he was right about Karrefour. The skeleton, though, that one’s Marinette and has Dean’s skin crawling with fury. 

He asks Sam why they still have one and isn’t prepared for Sam to look at him with sad, puppy-dog eyes, and say, “Because she’s a loa. It doesn’t matter whether they’re under punishment or not, just as it doesn’t matter whether I like them or not. There are plenty of loa I don’t particularly _care_ for, but that’s only because I’m not a match to them.”

It makes sense but Dean doesn’t like it. He won’t ever like it, wonders how Ogou feels about his wife’s sister, what she’s done in the past. Dean doesn’t say anything, though, just reaches out and touches Sam’s arm, half comfort, half possession. 

“Your case is different than most initiates, so I won’t bother telling you about inviting the loa or getting ready to petition them. So. This is what _you_ need to know about being ridden,” Sam says. Dean buries down a snicker; Sam doesn’t do more than roll his eyes, but Dean can see the skin under Sam’s eyebrows turn pink. “Focus, Dean.” 

“Right, I’m focused,” Dean replies immediately. He sits down on the ground, cross-legged, faced in the direction of Ogou’s statue, a carved man holding a machete in one hand, a cigar in the other. “What do I need to do?” 

Sam sinks to the ground opposite him, also cross-legged; the action is graceful, fluid, and Sam looks oddly intent. “We already know who’s ready to put a bridle on you. You and Ogou need to work an arrangement out -- whether he’ll recede into your dreams when you’re in control, if you’ll share your mind, if he’ll be able to ride without an invitation every time. You’ll need to invite him in and be prepared for him to take over completely the first time.” Sam pauses, looks down, oddly young and vulnerable. 

“What?” Dean asks, suddenly worried. 

His worry’s eased when Sam looks up, grinning, a decidedly wicked tint to his eyes. “The first thing Ogou will probably do is guzzle down half a bottle of rum. The second thing he’ll probably do is pin me to the ground and fuck me raw, Danny riding me or not.” 

Dean grins, says, “Sounds good. Alcohol and sex -- I like this loa.” 

“You would,” Sam mutters. He rolls his eyes, glares when Dean kicks him, and looks up to the sky as if for guidance. “_Sa tout fason_. Ogou likes you, so he’ll be inclined to listen. After the first time, it’s a negotiation. Even though the loa are spirits, we retain the most control. We can revoke their presence and, if they don’t listen, we have ways to kick them out. You remember what it was like with Marinette, less like a possession, more like a conversation?” Dean grimaces but nods. “It’ll be like that, mostly. The loa do have ways of blocking our senses but it takes them power they’d rather use doing other things.” 

“Rum and sex,” Dean says, piping in. 

Sam closes his eyes, sighs, and says, “I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I. Can we _focus_? Please?” Dean bites back his grin, puts on his most attentive face, and nods innocently. Sam doesn’t buy it for a second. 

\--

They talk for an hour. Sam goes through the basics of being ridden by a Petro loa, keeps telling Dean at every turn that he’ll be there and that if Dean doesn’t want to do this, if Dean changes his mind, then Sam’ll be fine with it. Dean doesn’t want to push his luck, so he pokes at that ache in the back of his head and tells Ogou that they’re going to get along just fine, thank you very much. Ogou seems amused, if anything. 

The _badjikan_ keeps his distance; Dean can see him walking through the house, back and forth in front of the door to the courtyard, shadows moving upstairs. It feels good to be here, with Sam, talking, and be alone, but all good things come to a too-quick ending. The _badjikan_ pauses during one walk and taps on the glass door. 

Dean’s gratified to see some annoyance flash through Sam’s expression, but Sam twists to turn around and waves the _badjikan_ in. “Hate disturbing you, but y’all have a visitor,” he says. Dean frowns, stands up and offers a hand to Sam, who takes it. Lightning pulses in Dean’s muscles and, judging by the way Sam seems to struggle to hold himself still and steady, Sam can feel it as well. Sam gets himself under control, though, and while Ogou’s crowing with glee, Dean watches longing slip into his brother’s eyes, quickly buried down and hidden away. 

“Who is it?” Sam asks, following the _badjikan_ back into the house, around through to the kitchen. There’s no need for the _badjikan_ to answer. Leaning against the kitchen counter, beer bottle in his hand, is Tony. 

The _konfians kay_ of St. Louis straightens when he sees Sam, eyes flicking to take in Dean as well, and he sets the bottle down on the counter. “_Poto mitan_,” he says, and steps forward to kiss Sam’s knuckles, accept Sam’s kiss on his forehead. 

“Tony,” Sam replies, question in the greeting. 

Tony looks between the two of them again, the _badjikan_ having left the kitchen humming something under his breath. “I know you said you’d call if you needed reinforcements,” he begins, “but you never said to stay away. When Phil told me you called him and asked him to come down, along with Nick and Kat, I thought I’d take a few days off work and travel down as well.” 

He stops there, waiting for Sam to either welcome him or stay, but Dean steps past his brother, holds out his hand. “It’s good to see you, Tony,” he says. Tony glances at Sam, clearly cautious, but he takes Dean’s hand, shakes it. “Actually, I think we’re glad you’re here.” Dean turns to Sam, raises an eyebrow. 

The two have a silent battle of wills but Dean pushes the issue and Sam accepts it with a downward dip of his eyes, Danny grinning up at him through her bangs. “Oh, my _masisi_,” she murmurs, leaning forward, pressing her lips to Dean’s and then pulling back, Dean’s lower lip caught for a moment between her teeth. 

Dean swallows, seeing the heat in her eyes, feeling his skin break and start to bleed. Ogou growls, batters uselessly against the block, and Danny starts to laugh before she slides back into Sam. 

“Welcome home,” Sam says, looking at Tony. Dean follows Sam’s gaze, sees the _konfians kay_ looking between them with something more curious, more fearful, more desirous, than mere caution. “We’ll try to catch you up on everything before Pen gets back with food.” 

\--

Just after five, Penny comes waltzing in to the house like she’s an honoured guest, bringing Nick and Phil with her. Bourbon Street’s starting to get rowdy, the noise drifting over to Dauphine, but Dean knows it’ll only get worse as the night goes on. He closes the door behind the three _konfians kays_, watches as Nick and Tony shake hands, as Phil and Tony grin at each other and then hug. The four _konfians kays_ start talking amongst themselves, gravitating toward the front living room; the _badjikan_ urges them away from the front door, tempting them with trays of café au lait and beignets. 

Sam’s still standing by the front door, won’t budge. “She’s supposed to come here straight after work,” he says, eyes narrowed, standing still and tense. “It’s not that far. I’ll wait until I know she’s lied to me.” 

Dean looks out the door, then at Sam. “And if she doesn’t come?” 

Sam’s lips thin, pressed together and turning white with tension. He looks furious and Dean can smell smoke in the air, can feel electricity in the air making the hair on his arms stand up straight. Karrefour, riding so close to the surface that he’s drowning out every sign of Danny; black magic Petro and Sam looks like he’s ready to kill someone. 

“If she doesn’t come here, then we’ll go after her,” Sam says. “She can’t lie, not to _me_, and expect to get away with it.” 

There’s a scuffle behind them. Dean turns, sees Tony standing next to the _badjikan_, both of them focused on Sam, looking half sick to their stomachs. “Sam?” Tony asks, pressing one hand against his belly, wincing like he has a headache and is two seconds away from throwing up. 

Dean looks back at his brother, sees Sam tense even more, but Tony and the _badjikan_ relax. The electric scent of Karrefour fades until Dean has to search out any hint of it, and he gets then that Sam’s drawn the loa back in, either forced him down or put up what must’ve been a pretty impressive barrier to block in a pretty impressive emanation. “Drink your coffee and have a snack. Either Dennis will be here in the next ten minutes or we’re going out to get her.” Sam’s voice sounds as taut as the muscles in his arms and neck look, stretched tight and close to breaking. 

Tony nods, not that Sam can see it, and disappears out of sight; the noise coming from the living room drops to nothing after a few seconds have passed. 

“We ain’t feelin’ ‘er, boyo,” the _badjikan_ says. “We ain’t feelin’ Mam’selle Charlie, neither. She be hiding from you.” 

“Who is,” Dean starts to say, then remembers Sam going around the courtyard and naming off every loa’s statue. “Mademoiselle Charlotte. That’s who Dennis’ loa is?” He looks at the _badjikan_, asks, “What does it mean that you can’t feel her?” 

Sam turns to face them both and Dean gets a good, long look at the way the loa are swirling and shattering in Sam’s eyes, exploding into tiny pieces and forming back together, almost too fast for him to keep up with. “It means that the loa’s hiding as well. If Erzulie Freda can’t feel her, then it means Dennis and Charlie are laying low.”

“Running?” Dean asks, because even though he thinks that Dennis has too much to lose, that she’s far more likely to stay and fight, if she’s seen this look in Sam’s eyes before, she might just think tucking tail and getting out of town would be safer. 

Sam bares his teeth. “If she is, she’s dead.” 

Dean remembers Sam’s hands on Gordon’s neck, caressing Gordon’s neck. He remembers the way Sam talked to the loa in Chicago, remembers Sam’s callous disregard for the illusion of Kate, in the woods outside of Kirklin, and shivers. Ogou’s humming in approval and as much as seeing Sam act this way makes Dean worried, unable to stop thinking of how innocent and naïve Sam always seemed growing up, he feels satisfaction sweep through him like a drug.

\--

Sam gives it five minutes and, when Dennis still hasn’t shown up, hasn’t called or sent word, he stalks into the living room. The _konfians kays_ all quiet, stand up and face Sam, all of their heads tilted to one side, enough to bare their throats as if they’re wolves and not vodouisantes. Dean thinks it’s instinctual, more than anything, because Sam’s lips are curled back and he’s radiating fury even though he’s buried Karrefour’s electric rage down inside. 

“She’s hiding,” he says, point-blank, and the vodouisantes calm, knowing Sam’s not angry with them, even as they glare at the thought that Dennis isn’t giving Sam his due respect. “’Zulie Freda can’t find Lottie and none of the Petro are calm enough to help. So you’re going to, you Rada horses,” Sam says, voice low and dangerous, curling with sensuality, close to a purr. “Always giving me trouble, you Rada vodouisantes, so now you’re going to help, whether you want to or not.” 

Dean steps forward, startled, and says, “Sam, these ones are ours. They’re not the ones causing trouble.” 

Sam growls, stalks forward, wrenching his shoulder free of Dean’s hold. He stands in front of Penny, electricity radiating outwards from his body like a breeze, and says, “You, Simbe.” She falls to her knees but Sam doesn’t stop, moves to Nick and says, “You, Loko,” then Philippe, says, “You, Agoueh.” 

Sam pauses in front of Tony, the _Petro_ horse, and Dean shakes his head, seeing the other three on their knees, fine tremours running through their muscles. “Sam, he’s Petro, not Rada,” Dean says. 

Before Dean can get to Sam, though, Sam cocks his head and says, “You, Legba Atibon.” It’s not Sam, though; Karrefour’s the one who spoke, the loa of the night crossroads calling down his Rada counterpart. 

Dean freezes, stuck where he’s at, watching with the _badjikan_ not far behind him. He sees the difference between what Sam is and the other vodouisantes now, in crystal clear vision. Sam’s riders take him over so effortlessly, a give-and-take of the physical so seamless that it’s impossible for anyone else to know when a rider is mounting the _poto mitan_. The _konfians kays_, vodouisantes of power and authority, they’re on their knees, shaking, but that’s the extent of it, even with such a forceful mounting. Other vodouisantes, the ones Dean’s seen in Louisiana, in Chicago and St. Louis, it was much more violent, more physically demanding, the horses ending up writhing on the floor. 

“You’re hurting our horses, Karrefour,” Simbe says, speaking with Penny’s mouth. “There’s no need for this display.” 

“Second-sighted loa,” Karrefour growls. “Tell the _poto mitan_ what you know of this.” 

The loa riding Nick sighs, says, “Dennis hiding from us, you _bata_, like Mam’selle ‘Lotte. We ain’t gonna tell you nothing you don’t already know.” 

“Agoueh?” Karrefour asks, as both Penny and Nick slump, the loa leaving them. Karrefour doesn’t care about them, though, dismisses them as he focuses on Philippe. Dean’s heart feels like it’s skipping every other beat and then he hears a dripping sound. He looks around, can’t place it until he looks back at Sam and sees blood on the floor. Karrefour’s vévé, tattooed into Sam’s arm, has finally split open. 

Agoueh spits at Karrefour’s feet, rattles out a long string of Creole that makes no sense to Dean, and then leaves, Phil slumping to the floor, looking dazed and ill. 

“You stupid, cousin,” Ati says, riding Tony. “Wasting time while scared lil’ Mademoiselle hiding, putting the fear of Bondye into horses already yours. Ain’t no need to be doing this, Karrefour.” 

Karrefour snarls, hands curling into fists. “Anything useful, cousin?” Ati grins and Karrefour lifts one hand to his chest. Dean can see something dark staining Sam’s shirt -- blood, leaking from one of the tattoos meant to represent Ati, Dean guesses. “Then get,” Karrefour says. Tony shivers, slides from his knees to sit down, grimacing in pain. 

“I’m going to get her,” Karrefour says, speaking slow and plain, bloodlust underwriting every word, every pause. “I’m going to get her and then I’m going to bring her back here to answer for what she’s been doing.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Dean says, before he can stop himself. He swallows when Karrefour turns to him, holds himself steady and sees why the others all made gestures of obeisance when Sam walked into the room. He’s afraid of Karrefour, of the power this loa seems to hold, able to call down any other loa at any time, without even the benefit of a drawn vévé, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll go with you to find her,” he says, again. 

Karrefour studies him, stalks across the room like a cat might, sleek and lithe. This is a loa who knows how to use Sam’s body to its full potential, for violence instead of sex, for causing bloodshed instead of pleasure. Dean stands there and takes the inspection, not backing down an inch, holding Karrefour’s gaze. Ogou laughs, approving, and at the sound, Karrefour breaks out into a lazy grin, like he could hear it, too. 

“All that work we did, gone to waste,” Karrefour says, lifting one hand to Dean’s face. He draws nails down Dean’s cheek, light and teasing, a hint of controlled power underneath, like he’d love to rake bloody furrows across Dean’s skin but won’t, not yet. Dean gets goosebumps but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Karrefour leans close to Dean’s ear, whispers, “Are you scared yet, boy?” and licks the shell of Dean’s ear before sucking Dean’s earlobe into his mouth and biting down hard. 

Dean growls at the pain, lifts his hands and bunches them in Karrefour’s shirt, pulls the loa closer until they’re face to face. “Never scared of you,” Dean whispers, venom in his tone, and leans forward, takes Karrefour’s mouth. When he pulls back, he leaves Karrefour bleeding. 

Karrefour touches his lips, the ragged, bitten, bleeding spots, and grins. “’d fuck you now if I didn’t have to go track down the _menas_.” Dean feels his dick start to harden, wants nothing more than for that to happen, but Karrefour merely touches his arm, digs his fingernails in until Dean’s skin breaks apart and bleeds. “Pity,” Karrefour says, looking down, eyes lingering on Dean’s crotch. “Another time.” 

Dean feels like he’s reeling when Karrefour abruptly turns away, heads for the door. That electric presence gone, the room feels empty. He stands there for a moment, blinking, then sees Tony and Penny looking at him as if waiting for him to say something, both of them getting to their feet, tired and unsteady. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, when it finally sinks in that Sam’s gone to track down Dennis by himself, him and the loa. Just as quickly as Karrefour had turned and gone for the door, Dean does, emerging onto Dauphine in a hurry. Penny and Tony are behind him, following, and Dean looks both ways, towards Conti and then St. Louis. He has no idea which way Sam’s gone, but Ogou’s a hunter and pushing him downriver, so Dean gives in and sets off in a jog for St. Louis Street. 

\--

They catch up to Karrefour as the loa’s crossing Bourbon. “Go back and wait for us there,” Karrefour orders without even looking. Dean hears Penny and Tony stop, indecisive, hears them turn around and leave in the next second. He turns to look, incredulous, but Karrefour says, “You too, boy,” as if he expects unquestioning obedience. 

“You can’t order me around,” Dean retorts. “I’m not even a horse yet. I’m coming with you. Which is where, exactly?”

Karrefour halts, and when Dean gets closer, stares at him. “You’re telling me no?” Karrefour asks, like Dean better think good and hard about his answer and be prepared to live with the consequences whatever he says. Dean says yes, nods, and isn’t at all prepared for Karrefour to throw his head back and laugh. 

By the time the loa’s done, Sam’s back and looking hesitant, cautious, as he reaches up and traces Dean’s lips with his thumb. 

“Before you say you’re sorry,” Dean says, speaking just as Sam opens his mouth, “don’t be.” He gets closer, hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Sam’s jeans and tugs Sam until their bodies are flush against one another. “He’s part of you, just like Danny,” Dean murmurs, between kisses. “And, God, he’s as hot as she is. When does he get to fuck me?” 

“You aren’t scared?” Sam asks, looking well on his way to being dazed. 

Dean snorts, says, “Fucking terrified. Anyone in their right mind should be, facing down Karrefour. But it’s like Danny said in Chicago: he brings something different, y’know? Knowing he’s equally likely to kiss me or kick me, it’s a rush.” 

Sam smiles, closes his eyes and gains his equilibrium, much steadier when he opens his eyes again, loa swimming just under the surface. “You’re insane, Dean.”

“That’s why you love me,” Dean says instantly, ruffling Sam’s hair. 

In an echo of Rose and Kate’s conversation, Dean knowing it’s coming long before Sam says it, Sam replies, “And here I thought it was that thing you do with your tongue,” descending into laughter as soon as he’s done. 

\--

Sam leans forward, head on Dean’s shoulder, holding Dean tight. Dean doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Sam and lets Sam come down after the rush of being ridden by a loa as dangerously powerful as Karrefour. When Sam straightens up, steps back, eyes on Dean, he looks calm. There are hints of anger in his eyes but it’s mostly a human anger, only thin threads of the loa showing through. 

“You know where she’s at?” Dean asks before Sam can say anything. 

“No,” Sam replies. “Not exactly,” he amends, a moment later. “You know when we were on a hunt, oh, a few months before I left for San Francisco, that pattern of ritual possessions in Jersey?” 

Dean raises an eyebrow, thinks; he’s not sure why Sam brought that up now but he’d like to figure it out before Sam gives him the answer. They’d moved to New Jersey right before Christmas of Sam’s senior year after one of their father’s friends called and put them on the trail of a demon. There’d been a circle of possessions and police had been finding corpses bled dry, caught inside of a devil’s trap. John had plotted each location on a local map and the first five had formed a pentagram, the next few turning the shape into a heptagram, then an octagon. What had been telling, though, wasn’t the empty space in the middle -- it was the one missing point during the second wave of killings. 

“Blank space,” Dean says, focusing back on Sam. “The loa can see the area around here, except one?” 

“Karrefour’s able to spread out through the city,” Sam says, eyes darting over Dean’s shoulder for a split-second. “Almost like a net, to see everything underneath. There’s a spot he can’t get anything from, though. We’ll check there first?” 

Dean nods, reaches behind him, wishes he’d thought to tuck a gun into his jeans but figures he has Ogou and that’ll be good enough. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, Sam more than understands.


	7. Chapter 7

They walk up St. Louis and are almost to Royal Street when Sam stiffens, stops and turns. He stares at the windows of Antoine’s and Dean recognises the name from their first night in New Orleans, Dennis wanting to meet them here. Coat and tie, Sam had said, and Dean hadn’t given it any more thought after they’d gotten the meeting switched to Coop’s. 

“You think she’s inside?” Dean asks quietly, elbow knocking into Sam’s, people passing them, those in the line looking at them. 

“Oh, yes,” Sam mutters. Instead of heading for the front, Sam goes around to the back entrance into the kitchens and knocks on the door. A harried-looking guy in a splattered apron peers out, glaring, but he pales when he sees Sam, asks them to wait and then slams the door. 

Dean’s tempted to say something about Sam’s reputation preceding him, but he looks over and sees Sam’s jaw clenched tight. He keeps his mouth shut and, moments later, a guy in a chef’s hat leans out of the door, sees Sam and starts speaking in French. They go back and forth; Dean’s just listening, lulled into a hazy sense of anticipation, hearing the accent and language spilling from his brother’s lips, and gets caught off-guard when Sam says something and then steps into the kitchen. 

“Coming?” Sam asks, raised eyebrow, rolling his eyes at Dean’s leer. 

They walk through the kitchen in sync, Dean at Sam’s elbow, watching. He can bet which people have been here the longest: half of them freeze when they see Sam and the other half starts asking why. Sam doesn’t take any notice of it, doesn’t _act_ like he cares, following the chef through the kitchen and into a hallway connecting the dining rooms. 

“_La pièce de mystère_?” Sam asks, and as the chef shakes his head, leaving to go back to the kitchen, Sam takes a deep breath and nods his thanks. He stands there, breathing, for a moment, and tells Dean, “She’s in the room to the end of this hall, at the left, and with someone else, a man I know.”

“The chef knew this?” Dean asks. “Because I thought they never leave their kitchens.” 

Sam grins, though it’s not an easy expression, has worry underpinning it, anxiety and the slightest trace of fear. “Dennis always orders the same thing every time she comes, and she and her companion are very noteworthy. They come here often.” 

Dean hums, moves when Sam does, and as they turn, he takes in the room’s décor. There are photographs all over the walls, five round tables covering the floor, draped over in white linens, everything done in rich reds and sumptuous woods. 

Dennis is sitting at the table in the back corner, facing the room; she sees them the instant they stand in the doorway, both of them out-of-place, not at all properly attired for the restaurant, looking like two hundred miles of bad road, car fires and flat tires. She doesn’t say anything, though, merely sets her fork down, picks her serviette up off of her lap to dab at her lips, leans back in her chair. 

The man sitting with his back to Sam and Dean turns, stands up with a wide smile on his face at the sight of them. He beckons them over and Sam goes, Dean following, bemused. 

The man shakes Sam’s hand, asks if he’d like to join them, politely looking between Sam and Dean. Sam smiles, says, “Greg, I’d like you to meet Dean.” Dennis doesn’t say anything, watching with eagle-sharp eyes, but she flinches when Sam goes on to say, “Dean, this is Greg, my investment partner. He’s made me a hell of a lot of money around New Orleans.” 

Pleased to see Dennis fighting to regain her expression of self-righteous superiority, Dean shakes Greg’s hand, exchanges pleasantries as best he can. All he really wants is see Dennis on her knees, bleeding and begging for her life. 

“And you know Denise Delacourt?” Greg asks, gesturing at Dennis, who stands up, reluctance clearly written on her face. 

“Oh, we’re good friends,” Sam says. Dean can’t help the look of surprise he gives Sam at the friendly tone Sam uses. “Actually, that’s why we’re here. Something’s come up and Ms. Delacourt’s presence is unfortunately required. I hate to ruin your dinner, Denise, but could your waiter wrap that for you?” 

Just like magic, the waiter’s behind Sam’s other elbow, clearly waiting for Dennis to answer. Dean’s impressed despite his best efforts not to be; it’d be nice to come here, just once, and pretend to be at home amongst the opulence. 

“If I’m needed, best not to wait,” Dennis says, eyes moving between Sam and Dean. Dean can’t fault her, though; she doesn’t give any clue that she knows exactly what’s going on and she isn’t delaying the inevitable. “My compliments to the chef and apologies for not being able to finish,” she tells the waiter, who nods and disappears as silently as he’d arrived. 

“Well, Sam, you and Dean can join me, then, now that you’ve dispatched your message,” Greg says, smiling. 

The smile falls as Sam shakes his head, replies, “Unfortunately, we’re needed as well. It’s nothing serious, Greg, but it does demand our immediate attention. I’m sorry to disturb your evening.” 

Sam leaves, walking through the restaurant, Dennis following with her head held high. Dean brings up the rear, turns as he leaves the Mystery Room to see Greg watching them with confusion all over his face.

\--

He half expects Dennis to make a run for it once they get outside but she follows them all the way back to the house on Dauphine without saying a word, even when Sam turns down Bourbon. Dean’s not sure why they’re going this way, down Bourbon to Conti, only to have to turn back once they get on Dauphine, but he understands when Dennis stiffens walking past Mango Mango. Rose is manning the bar; she leans forward, lets out a wolf-whistle at the sight of Dennis in her business suit and stilettos, neck taut and eyes looking forward. 

“’Bout time you bridle that fucking whore!” Rose calls out. Dennis almost misses a step but she doesn’t react in any other way, just keeps moving, following Sam. 

This is humiliation, nothing more, that’s the only reason they’re walking the block down Bourbon. Dean wishes he could feel even the slightest bit outraged on Dennis’ behalf, or pity for her, but he can’t. 

\--

Dennis balks at going into the house, turns to Sam and opens her mouth as if to plead, but the electric fury of Karrefour comes back; she pales and walks inside. The _badjikan_’s blocking the way to the kitchen and stairs, so Dennis squares her shoulders and enters the living room. 

Penny, Nick, Phil, and Tony are all standing by the window. They turn when Dennis walks in, Sam and Dean right behind her, and manage to stay expressionless, looking at her. Dean scoots past his brother, stands next to Tony, arms crossed on his chest, and sees Dennis glance over them all, sneer. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re going to do to me?” she asks, chin high, nose to the ceiling. “When it comes to the Rada, I’m the final word, Rada _konfians kay_ of New Orleans. None of _you_ are qualified to stand in judgment of _me_.” 

“I am,” Sam says, voice low. Dean’s eyes slide to his brother and he shivers, seeing that absolute rage back in every inch of Sam’s body. “I am and the loa are, Dennis. I have one question for you.” 

Dennis turns to Sam, lip curled, and says, flatly, “I don’t recognise your right to judge me. Ask whatever questions you’d like; I’m not going to answer them.” Sam growls, bares his teeth. “You’re an imposter,” Dennis goes on, losing some of her calm, leaning forward, getting in Sam’s face. “You weren’t raised to this, you weren’t even trained for this. You’re a _mistake_, not a _poto mitan_. If the Petro want to coddle you, so be it, but I won’t.” 

“You’re speaking blasphemy,” Penny says, barely breathing. She looks shocked. “He’s the _poto mitan_, it doesn’t matter what his parents were or weren’t.” 

Dennis rolls her eyes, and that’s the last straw for Dean. He flies forward, slams Dennis against the wall, one hand tight around her throat, the other grasping Dennis’ wrist to keep her from clawing his eyes out. “You _will_ answer his question,” Dean snarls. He can feel Ogou, furious, ready to kill her, and he embraces it, uses it and combines it with his own anger, running through every part of him. “Sam, ask her.” 

“The _sosyete_ say you’re the one stealing Midnight’s boxes, Dennis,” Sam says from behind Dean. “Are you planning on releasing Marinette?” 

“She kept you in line,” Dennis says, voice high and wheezing thanks to Dean’s fingers pressing into her larynx. “With her back, we won’t have to worry about you going all insane and keeping us from our loa.” 

Dean almost loses it then, almost squeezes just a little too tightly, but Ogou backs off and so Dean does as well, a little thrown as to why, exactly, the loa’s retreating just when they’ve found out that Dennis is responsible for everything going wrong here. 

He gets his answer a moment later when Sam shoves him out of the way, crowds up against Dennis. Dean stays close and then smells electricity strong enough to burn his nostrils; he puts a hand up to cover his mouth, his nose, and squints so the sensation won’t hurt his eyes. 

“One reason why we shouldn’t kill you,” Karrefour murmurs, one hand reaching to mess up Dennis’ perfect hair, the other scratching down her cheek hard enough to draw blood, maybe even leave scars. “Give me one reason.” Dennis tries to get away but can’t, trapped by the sheer size of Sam, but then stills, too scared to move, when Karrefour bends down and licks the blood off of Dennis’ cheek, humming at the taste. “Even taste wicked,” the loa whispers, before leaning down and taking a chunk out of Dennis’ neck. 

She howls, tries to fight again, but Karrefour holds her there. “Let go of me!” she yells, demanding, and then screams for one of the other Rada to help. “He’s out of control! He can’t stop the damned Petro animal.” 

Tony lets out a little growl but doesn’t move, looks as if he’d love to, but Dean guesses that the same electricity battering at him is keeping Tony locked in place. 

Karrefour sniffs the other side of Dennis’ neck. She lets out a whimper of distress, all the fight leaving her body, and Karrefour says, “I’m still waiting for that reason.” 

“It would cause too much trouble,” Dennis says, starting to babble like she’s stared death in the face and gone insane from the encounter. “My family, we’re too important, people would come looking, they’d never let you go, I have money, don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.” 

Sam looks at Dean, _Sam_, even though Dean can still smell electricity. Sam lets Dennis go, shakes his head at Dean when Dean moves to hold her. “Let her go. She’s pathetic, begging like that.” Dennis slumps, pants for breath, hangs her head, hair everywhere, blood all over her suit jacket and skin. “She’s not worth it, Dean.” Dennis winces but doesn’t argue. 

“You’ll take the loa from her?” Penny asks. 

“Already have,” Sam replies. Dean isn’t the only one who sees the look of pure hatred that flashes through Dennis’ face because Penny takes a step forward. She doesn’t do more than that, though, beyond glancing at Sam. Dean knows Sam didn’t see the look on Dennis’ face but before he can tell his brother, Sam says, “Give her her purse and let her go. I don’t want her in my house.” 

Nick picks up Dennis’ purse, tosses it over to her. She catches it, and the instant Sam steps away, she reaches in, pulls out a gun. 

“_Should’ve killed her yourself,_” Dean hears, and then, like a roaring rush of waves, he feels swamped by Ogou’s fury and bloodlust. He can’t breathe, feels like he’s choking on rage, and blacks out for a second. 

When he comes to, Dean hears Penny shouting something, but his body’s moving before anyone else’s can, one hand rising to bat the gun out of Dennis’ hold, the other slamming her up against the wall again. The strangest thing is, despite the anger he can feel, despite the way that Dennis’ skin slides under his, slick with blood and terrified sweat, it’s not _him_. Ogou’s destroyed the block, taken Dean over, is using his body. 

He panics for a moment, but Ogou says, “_Calm down, _cheval_. Ain’t doing ‘nothing but what you wanted to and I warned you ‘bout this. You should’ve killed her yourself._”

Dean stops fighting for a moment, takes inventory, and comes to a conclusion that’s terrifying in its own right. Unlike Marinette, Ogou inside of him feels _good_. More than that, Ogou feels like he fits, like he’s not taking Dean over so much as sharing a body with him. Dennis was going to try and kill Sam, try to kill Danny’s horse. Neither Ogou nor Dean will stand for that, so Dean says, “_Yes, I should have,_” and can feel the smile split his face. 

Ogou turns to Sam and Dean can feel the loa’s tenderness for Sam, can actually _feel_ Danny circling inside of Sam, desperate to come out to be with her husband, can feel Sam’s refusal and how powerful Sam must be to be able to hold Danny back. He can almost hear Danny pleading and it has him wanting to tell Sam it’ll be all right, that they’ll all be fine, the pair of them, their riders, the four of them together forming a unit so cohesive that no one will be able to get inside. Ogou’s in charge, though, and he’s not going to let Dean say anything. 

“_You’re a bastard,_” Dean tells his loa. “_Just tell him I’m all right and he’ll stop freaking out. Well. He’ll freak out less._” 

The loa weighs Dean’s advice and Dean feels it, can hear Ogou’s debate, can feel Ogou’s conflict. Dean finally understands, every inch of him, the relationship that Sam must have with his trinity. Ogou’s like another part of Dean and they don’t need to talk to get each other at every level; it’s a constant flow, a constant give-and-take, that feels right, that makes sense. To think that Sam would give this up, for _him_, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

“_Cheval_’s fine,” Ogou says, and when Sam’s shoulders slump in relief, Ogou says, softer, “He understands, _trezò_. Now, what we doing ‘bout the _menas_?” 

Dennis shakes her head and Ogou growls, pushing her tighter to the wall, elbow digging into her chest. “Please don’t,” she says, weakly. “Please.” 

Ogou looks at Sam, Dean can see everyone looking at Sam, and wishes his brother didn’t have to make choices like this. 

“I’ll do it,” Sam says. “She has to die, and if it’s going to be at anyone’s hands, it should be mine.” 

“_So stubborn,_” Ogou tells Dean. Dean’s hands move, he can feel them tighten around Dennis’ neck, and if Ogou was expecting to get an argument, he’s going to be disappointed. Sam killed Gordon, killed all those other hunters to protect his people, which is all well and good. Dennis, even though she’s a bitch, has been one of Sam’s and killing her will hurt in a different, deeper way that Dean wants to shield Sam from. Besides, Dean was supposed to protect Sam and he let someone draw a gun on his brother; if anyone should carry the weight of Dennis’ death on his hands, it should be Dean, for failing Sam. 

Ogou grins at Sam, licks his lips, and tells Sam something in Creole. Dean doesn’t understand it, wants to know what has Sam frowning and speaking in rapid-fire Creole, but Ogou hums at him, tells him to calm. “_She ain’t good ‘nough to waste a bullet on, _cheval_, ain’t that right?_” 

Dean’s hands move, stronger and faster than Dean could ever control, and Dennis goes limp, neck broken. Ogou moves away and Dennis falls to the ground, dead, covered in blood. 

\--

Penny reacts first, in the silence that follows. She lays satisfied eyes on Ogou and says, “Thought I told Dean I wanted it to take longer.” She stops, adds, softly, “Wanted to know she suffered, Ogou, like she’s made us suffer.” 

Ogou tilts his head, shrugs. “She died, knowing she lost. Anyone gonna suffer now, it’s gonna be her rider. _Trezò_, you still gonna block out the Rada here?” 

“Ti-Jean did, when Karrefour was occupied with Dennis,” Sam replies, eyes fixed on Ogou. Dean, inside and watching, wonders why Sam hasn’t reacted to Ogou’s presence yet, why Ogou hasn’t pounced on Sam. “Penny, Nick, Philippe, why don’t you three go and let the Rada here know what’s going to happen next.” They all nod, start to move, but then Sam says, “And get the rest of the boxes back from them, while you’re at it.” 

“We don’t know where they are,” Nick says, keeping Ogou in his peripheral vision. 

From the doorway, the _badjikan_ speaks up; when Ogou turns, the _badjikan_ winks. “_Sosyete_ gave us what we need to know. I got the list out here; y’all come on now and stop bothering the _poto mitan_.” 

It takes a moment for them to leave, but then Ogou’s alone with Sam, Tony the only other one in the room. “I’ll be making myself scarce, I think,” he says, looking back and forth between the two. Neither Sam nor Ogou say anything to dissuade him, so Tony leaves as well, pausing on his way to tell Ogou, “I hope you weren’t lying about your horse. And I hope you don’t underestimate what’s between the two of them.” 

“’Bout what’s ‘tween me and Danny,” Ogou replies, and Dean can feel that the loa’s strangely touched by the warning. “Don’t you worry, _konfians kay_.”

Tony stops at the doorway, looks at them once more, then goes through, closing the door behind him. 

\--

It’s silent in the room now, just the two of them. Dean watches as Sam draws a hand down his face and turns to face Ogou. 

“I want Dean back now,” Sam says, and Dean doesn’t know if Sam’s _trying_ to piss off the loa or what. He’s smiling, though, inside of his own head; he can see longing in Sam’s eyes and even though Sam and Danny both want Ogou, Sam’s asking for _him_.

Ogou grins, cocky and amused, and says, “_Trezò_, you told my _cheval_ ‘xactly what I was gonna do, first time I came out. Why you thinking I’m gonna do any different?” 

Sam scowls, suddenly fierce, and tells Ogou, “Either you let go of him or I’ll _make_ you let go of him.” 

The loa weighs Sam’s threat, takes it very, very seriously, and then smiles again, self-assured and confident. “No.” Dean starts clamouring, tells Ogou to just give up before he pisses Sam off, but the loa tells him to calm down and shut up. “Y’see, _poto mitan_: you have to want me out to push me out. But you ain’t. You want me in him jus’ as much as my Danny does.” Ogou starts stalking towards Sam, slow and steady, on the prowl. Sam steps backwards, swallowing. “So I’m gonna take you, _trezò_, and you gonna like it.” 

Sam freezes, moves the second that Ogou gets close enough to touch. He runs for the door, sends out a burst of coiled power from Karrefour a moment before he gets there and the wood shatters into splinters. Ogou laughs and this time when he moves, he’s _hunting_.

“_You really don’t want to piss him off,_” Dean tells the loa as Ogou goes out into the hallway, inhales and catches Sam’s scent under the hovering smell of Karrefour. “_I mean, did you see what he was like earlier?_” 

“_Shut up,_” Ogou says, pleasantly, climbing the stairs, heading for the bedroom. 

Dean knows this can’t be right, Sam wouldn’t run up, definitely wouldn’t run to a bedroom when he’s running away from a fuck, has second thoughts and thinks that maybe Sam’s not strong enough to fight the need, the want, and simply thought a bed under him when Ogou catches him would be a good idea. 

The loa must think the same thing; he’s overconfident, opening the bedroom door, though Dean feels blood drain from his face when Ogou sees what Sam’s doing. 

“_The hell does he think he’s doing?_” Dean asks a moment later, suddenly terrified. 

Sam’s sitting on the bed, holding a curse box in his hands. It’s the one they picked up in Bonne Terre, the one with the soul of a dead vodou priest inside, maybe twisted and dark and evil. 

“_Trezò_,” Ogou says, softly, hands in the air. “I’ll give ‘im back, you say the word.” Dean doesn’t understand why until Sam looks up, desperation written in every line of his face. This isn’t Danny’s desperation, nor Sam’s need for one of the other Petro loa; this is for Dean, because Dean’s not here, because Sam wants him back. This is a Sam who’ll do anything, including loosing the potentially destructive force of a _houngon_’s spirit, to get Dean back. 

“It’s too late, Ogou,” Sam replies, just as soft. He takes a deep breath, then says, “Bondye help me. I trust the loa.” 

Sam opens the box. 

\--

The cloud that comes out of the box looks like a demon, ink-black and glittering with power. It hovers around the room, starts circling like a whirlwind, and Sam throws his head back, mouth open. For an instant, Dean’s convinced that the spirit’s going to go into Sam, but Sam breathes a word, something that doesn’t sound as if it’s Creole or French, and the whirlwind comes for Dean, instead. 

It sinks into his skin, clogging every pore, burrows its way past every follicle, into his bones and his blood, at the same time it flies into his mouth, his ears, his nose. Dean has no time to feel betrayed, not when it feels as if he’s being torn apart, but it ends quickly. 

He hunches over, gasping for breath, then realises that _he_ is hunching over, not Ogou. 

“_Tricky _bata_, my _trezò_,_” Ogou says, and he sounds disappointed but also impressed. 

Dean prods at the block, finds it gone completely, can feel Ogou resting where the block was. It’s natural, completely and utterly, and as Dean straightens up, looks at his hands, he can feel Ogou in every movement, perfectly synchronised. 

“What was that?” Dean asks, and looks at Sam, meets Sam’s worried gaze. 

“How do you feel?” Sam asks. Dean scoffs, mutters something, and is taken off-guard at Sam’s next question. “How would you petition the loa during a Petro initiation?” 

Dean’s even more off-balance when he realises that he actually knows the answer. “The fuck was that, Sam? Because I suddenly find myself with a crap-load of vodou knowledge and I don’t think it’s all Ogou’s.” 

“That was a _houngon_’s spirit, Dean,” Sam replies, quietly. “Everything that made him what he was. Including his _konesan_.” 

“Who was he?” Dean’s shocked, getting the idea that he’s just inherited some priest’s knowledge, now might be equal to the challenge of being Sam’s other half in the world of vodou, equal to being Ogou’s _cheval_.

Sam looks at the floor, takes a deep breath before looking back up. “The former _konfians kay_ of the New Orleans Petro, Dean. Your rightful predecessor.” At Dean’s expression, Sam explains, “My first loa’s Danny; when that happens, her husband’s chief horse is always the leader of the New Orleans Petro. If you want it. I. You’re not upset, are you?” 

Dean wonders just how he should take that. Upset? Furious might be more like it, for Sam doing this to him without asking, but, at the same time, Dean’s thankful. This just cut a hell of a lot of time out of his education, brought Dean closer to Sam’s level, and that’s useful. And judging by what Dean knows now, the spirit wouldn’t have accepted him as its heir unless it thought he was worthy, of the knowledge and position as well as Sam. That fact has him wanting to preen. 

“Right now? Yes. But give it five minutes and I think I’ll be all right,” Dean says, watching Sam’s expression go from painfully dejected to hopeful. “I just. You really would’ve left all of this for me? You would’ve pushed Ogou out, knowing he might never come back, just to get me back? Sam, I can feel, it’s amazing, it’s like part of me I never knew I was missing, and you have _three_ of them which must get annoying sometimes, but.” 

Dean’s rambling, knows it, forces himself to stop just seconds before Sam’s cupping his cheeks, tilting his face up. Sam kisses him, soft and gentle, and Dean hears Ogou complaining about being left out in the cold. 

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning back. “It definitely gets annoying sometimes.” 

\--

Sam draws Dean to the bed and Dean picks up the curse box, sits down and holds it on his lap. Open and empty, save for a black cloth and a broken glass jar, he wonders how it contained such a feisty old man. He doesn’t have the _houngon_’s memories of everyday life but every vodou memory he does have, every piece of knowledge, is coated over with a perspective that has Dean convinced the old man must’ve been one hell of a barnraiser in his day. 

“Did you know what it would do?” Dean asks. 

Sam reaches over, places one hand on Dean’s knee and squeezes. “No,” Sam says. “But _l’esprit_ told me to trust the loa and I do. They know how much you mean to me and how much Ogou means to Danny. There’s no way they would’ve jeopardised that.”

Dean hums, asks, “And what you told it. What was that?” 

Silence lingers and stretches on until Sam shifts, sitting closer to Dean. “It’s part of my _konesan_,” he says, soft and serious. “The knowledge I’ll pass down to the next _poto mitan_. It wasn’t.” 

He stops, and Dean looks at his brother, says, “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. You trust the loa, but I trust you.” 

“I want to,” Sam says. “Dean, I _want_ to tell you, but I don’t know how to explain it. A language that exists between me and the black magic Petro, a, an understanding we have.” 

“I get it.” Dean grins, rolls his eyes at how ridiculous they’re being, all this _sharing_, all this talk, one chick-flick moment after another. “Dude, believe me, Ogou and I’ll be coming up with our own language soon enough. Guy can’t keep his mouth shut at _all_. And he’s a pervy son of a bitch.” 

Ogou pokes at Dean, mutters, “_Wouldn’t bother me to run roughshod, _cheval_. Wouldn’t bother me one bit._”

“And you’re okay with this?” Sam asks, tentative now, in everything from his touch to his tone. “Ogou didn’t have your permission, Dean. If you’re. I can throw him out and punish him.” 

Dean sticks out a mental tongue at Ogou, tells Sam out loud, “Crazy as it sounds, I think I’d miss him. Besides, then I couldn’t make him jealous by doing this.” He moves, sets the curse box on the floor, and pushes Sam on to the bed, straddles Sam’s hips with a sly smile on his face. Sam reaches his hands up, lets them slide up Dean’s chest, but Dean catches them before they get too far and pushes them back to the bed, over Sam’s head. “Let me,” he half-says, half-asks, and Sam nods, turns limp underneath him. 

\--

Dean strips Sam quickly, efficiently, feasts his eyes on miles of his brother’s tanned skin, knowing the power, the danger, Sam possesses. He has no desire to wake Karrefour up, but thinks about doing so later and gets goosebumps at the thought. 

“What are you thinking about?” Sam asks. 

“Karrefour,” Dean says, after debating with himself for a moment. Better to be honest, though, if he wants Sam to be honest with him; he doesn’t regret it, seeing Sam grin, feeling Sam shift underneath him. “You will. I mean, later, right? I can?” 

Sam laughs and Dean almost goes breathless with need. “It’s your dick,” Sam says, looking up at Dean with as much need in his eyes as Dean feels. “If you wanna gamble, then yes. But it better be when he’s in a good mood, otherwise I make no guarantees.” 

Dean leans down, lightly bites Sam’s adam’s apple, and licks his way up to Sam’s mouth. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he murmurs, breathing the words past Sam’s lips. He’s been judged worthy by a spirit, by Ogou and Danny as well, but even beyond the curiosity, what it would be like to tangle with Karrefour in bed, he wants to know that none of Sam’s loa think Sam could do better, that Dean isn’t good enough. 

Ogou thwaps at Dean, tells him to stop thinking and get to the fucking, and as much as Dean wants this to be him and Sam, he draws on the _konesan_ he inherited and melds with Ogou, both of them moving hands to tangle in Sam’s hair, both of them sucking on Sam’s earlobe. 

Sam gets it, must know how it’s going, because a moment later, Ogou stirs and lets loose with a laugh that has Sam breaking into tremours underneath them. “Danny,” Dean breathes; he can see her in the cant of Sam’s eyelashes, the tilt of Sam’s head. “Sam?” 

“Both of us,” Sam answers, and even though it’s Sam, there are undertones of Danny as well, her lazy drawl and Creole accent underneath Sam’s rhythm and voice. “Just like both of you. Now, Dean, you gonna fuck us or are we gonna talk about it all night?” 

“Oh, we’re fucking,” Dean answers, and surrenders to the feeling of lightning circling through him, pooling in his cock, the smell of perfume in the air, heady and hypnotising. 

\--

Dean pulls his shirt off, pauses when shucking off his jeans would mean getting up, off of Sam. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to give Sam another chance to run, but Sam reaches up with one hand, trails fingers down Dean’s cheek. “I’m not moving,” he says, somehow knowing why Dean’s hesitating. “I’ll stay right here.” 

Sam bites his lip; Dean bends down, kisses the breath out of Sam, and then moves while Sam’s still stunned, tearing off his jeans and underwear, socks. Dean sees Sam watching, feels Ogou’s desire to strut for his wife, for the _poto mitan_, and gives Sam a cocky grin before crawling back up Sam’s body. 

Karrefour would want blood but Ogou’s content to have Sam panting underneath him, so Dean kisses Sam for a while, long and lazy kisses while they’re lying skin to skin, Dean’s cock riding the groove of Sam’s hip, hard and wet. Sam’s hands are on Dean’s back, nails pinprick light, but when Sam tries to move, tries to arch his hips for contact, Dean sits up, pushes Sam’s hands back to the bed, above Sam’s head. 

Sam opens his mouth to argue but Dean places a finger across Sam’s lips. His brother stills, doesn’t argue, so Dean smiles, starts to kiss his way down Sam’s body, biting at times, licking at others to soothe the sting, paying attention to every tattoo, every line and curve of ink, until he gets down to Sam’s dick, leaking precome. 

He ignores Sam’s cock, bites at Sam’s hipbones instead, looks up and says, “Think I want my name somewhere on here,” as if Sam’s body is nothing more than a canvas, a display piece of tattoos. As soon as Dean says it, he feels the want hit him like a punch to the gut; the loa have their claim on Sam, literally marked out and pushed down into Sam, and Dean wants his own, wants everyone who sees the loas’ tattoos to see Dean’s as well. 

Dean sucks a mark into Sam’s skin but knows it’ll fade, wants more, something _permanent_, something that means them, together, forever. Sam reaches down, runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, and says, “Wherever you want, whenever you want.” 

Sam’s smiling when Dean looks up at his brother, eyes dark with desire, and Dean swallows, lets his hands span Sam’s hips. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge Sam’s agreement beyond an answering smile before pushing Sam’s legs apart and up, licking at Sam’s hole. 

He’s not sure if it’s Danny or Sam speaking Creole, doesn’t know if he’s the one feeling warm inside and desperate to stake his claim or if that’s Ogou, doesn’t care. Dean tongue-fucks Sam slow, wet and warm like the air, until Sam’s shining with sweat, until Dean can’t wait any longer. 

“Gonna fuck you,” he says, shifting, and if there are strains of Ogou in his voice, Sam doesn’t point it out. “Fuck, Sam, need it.” He slides in, slowly, letting Sam adjust to the feeling, and when Sam starts to beg, Dean pulls back, almost out, and then pushes back in, starting a rhythm that seems to go deeper than the two of them, seems older than time. 

“Dean,” Sam says, and starts to shake, muscles tight and tense, back arching off of the bed, eyes closed and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Ogou. God, _Dean_.” 

Ogou wants Dean to move faster and Dean thinks that sounds like a good idea, so he picks up the pace, giving voice to the same noises spilling through the loa, his voice curling in with Sam’s, until they’re two halves of the same whole, their loa two halves, and it should feel wrong, feel like too much, but it doesn’t. 

Dean comes inside of his brother, Sam comes over their skin, and Sam makes a noise of protest when Dean pulls out, immediately pulling Dean to lie on top of him, holding him in place. 

“I know you hate chick flick moments,” Sam says, once they’ve both caught their breath, are lying in the dark and sharing the same air, “and I know we’ve had too many lately. But I love you, Dean.” 

“You and me, together,” Dean replies. He pauses, then smiles, blows in Sam’s nose, and adds, “And you and Danny, and me and Ogou, and Danny and Ogou, right?” 

Sam wrinkles his nose, rolls and dumps Dean on to the bed, curls up into Dean, naked and unashamed, eyes clear even as Dean can recognise the shape of each loa inside of his brother. “Right,” Sam says, and closes his eyes. 

\--

They leave New Orleans three days later. The visiting _konfians kays_ have picked someone else to lead the New Orleans Rada, someone who seems on the up-and-up. Sam’s given the Rada vodouisantes a stern talking to, in the cathedral, as promised, and Dean followed that up with a lecture of his own, with added warnings and smiled threats. Dean isn’t sure what the relationship between Sam and the Monseigneur is but he knows that Sam will clue him in when he’s ready to. 

Dean’s also met every one of the New Orleans Petro, let Ogou sit in judgment of them all and only found a handful he didn’t like. Tony had agreed, as had Sam, so Dean didn’t mind exiling them. He’s spent a lot of time with Tony, learning what it is to be a _konfians kay_, learning what sort of vodouisante he wants to be, and Tony goes back to St. Louis with a smile, making Sam and Dean promise to come visit him soon. 

The _badjikan_ tells them they’re too troublesome to stay around for long, and so, on the third day, after a whirlwind morning with Kate and Rose, the four of them standing over a bonfire in the courtyard, Dean and Sam leave New Orleans, drive north to meet up with their father, ready for some vodou-free time. 

There are so many questions Dean has, so many things during the past week that he still doesn’t understands, but Ogou’s settled in the back of his head, willing and ready to spend the drive talking now that they’re free of other obligations. The only thing Dean actually regrets about this whole experience is that he hasn’t talked to Karrefour since the night Dennis died. Karrefour seems content to talk through Sam, to wait, and Dean thinks that the loa’s pretty much trying to drive Dean insane. 

“_Don’t go picking fights you know you gonna lose,_” Ogou tells him, as Sam’s sleeping in the passenger seat, neck bent at what has to be an uncomfortable angle. 

“_Shut up,_” Dean replies. “_And help me figure out how we can win, instead._” 

The loa laughs, tells Dean that’s never going to happen, not with Karrefour, and Dean and Ogou trade insults as the sun sets and the road stretches out in front of the Impala, wide and open.


End file.
